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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



AND REMAINS OP 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



•WITH A 



LIFE BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 

18 55. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

MEMOIR OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE, . ..17 



POEMS INSERTED IN THE MEMOIR. 

On being confined to School one pleasant Morning in Spring; 

written at the age of Thirteen, . . . .19 

Extract from an Address to Contemplation, written at Fourteen, 21 

To the Rosemary, ...... 34 

To the Morning, ....... 35 

My own Character, ...... 43 

Ode on Disappointment, . . . . . .49 

Lines, written in Wilford Churchyard, on Recovery from Sickness, 52 



POEMS PUBLISHED UNDER THE TITLE OF 
CLIFTON GROVE, ETC. 

Original Preface to Clifton Grove,. . . . .75 

To my Lyre, ....... 79 

Clifton Grove, . . . . . . .81 

Gondoline, a Ballad, . . ... . . 96 



5^11 CONTEXTS. 

PAGE 

Written on a Survey of the Heavens, in the Morning before Day- 
break, . ....... 107 

Lines supposed to be spoken by a Lover at the Grave of his Mis- 
tress, 109 

My Study Ill 

To an early Primrose, . . . . . • 114 
Sonnet 1. To the Trent, . . • . . .115 

2. •• Give me a Cottage on some Cambrian Wild." . 115 

3. Supposed to have been addressed by a Female Lunatic 

to a Ladv. . . . . . .116 

4. In the Character of Dermody. . . . 116 

5. The "Winter Traveller, . . . .117 

6. By Capel Lofft, Esq. 118 

7. Recantatory in reply, . . . . .118 

8. On hearing an Julian Harp, . . . 119 

9. "What art thou, MiGHTT OxE?" . . .119 
*' Be hushed, be hushed, ye bitter Winds," . . . 120 
The Lullabv of a Female Convict to her Child, . , .121 



POEMS WEITTEX DURIXG. OR SHORTLY AFTER, THE 
PUBLICATIOX OF CLTFTOX GROVE. 

Ode to H. Fuseli. Esq., R.A., ..... 122 

Ode to the Earl of Carlisle, . . . . .125 

Description of a Summer's Eve, . . . . 128 

To Contemplation. . . . . . .129 

To the Grenitis of Romance. Fragment, . . . 184 

The Savoyard's Return, . . . . . .135 

" Go to the raging Sea, and say, Be Still," . . . 136 

Written in the Prospect of Death, . . . .138 

Pastoral Song, "Come. Anna, come," .... 140 

To Midnight, ....... 141 

To Thought. Written at Midni^rht, . . . , 142 



CONTEXTS. xiii 

Page 

Genius, ........ 144 

Fragment of an Ode to the Moon, .... 146 

Fragment, '"'Oli. thou most fatal of Pandora's train,"" . . 148 

Sonnet, To Capel Lofft, Esq., ..... 149 

To the Moon, ...... 150 

TTritten at the Grave of a Friend, . . . 150 

To Misfortune, ...... 151 

"As thus oppressed with many a heavy Care," . 151 

To April, ....... 152 

" Ye Unseen Spirits," . . , . 152 

To a Taper, ...... 153 

"Yes! 'twill be over soon," .... 153 

To Consumption, . . . . . .154 

"Thy judgments. Lord, are just," . . . 154 



POEMS OF A LATER DATE. 

To a Friend in Distress, who, when H. K. W. reasoned with him 

calmly, asked, if he did not feel for him. . . .155 

Christmas Day, ...... 156 

Xelsoni Mors, ....... 158 

Hymn, "Awake, sweet Harp of Judah. wake," . . 160 

Hymn for Family Worship. . . . . .161 

The Star of Bethlehem, ..... 163 

Hymn, " Lord, my God, in Mercy turn."' . . . 164 

Melody, "Yes, once more that dying Strain."' . . . 165 

Song, by Waller, with an additional Stanza. . . .165 

"I am pleased, and yet I'm sad."" .... 166 

Solitude, ........ 163 

"If far from me the Fates remove," .... 169 

"Fanny, upon thy Breast I may not lie." . . . .170 

Yerses, "Thou base Repiner at another's joy," . . 170 

Epigram on Robert Bloomfield, . . . . .171 



XIV CONTENTS. 

FRAGMENTS. 

PAGE 

I. "Saw'st thou that Light?" .... 172 

II. ''The pious man, in this bad World," . . . 1T2 

III. ''Lo! on the eastern Summit," . . . 173 

IV. " There was a little Bird upon that Pile," . . .173 
V. " pale art thou, my Lamp," .... 174 

YL " give me Music," . . . . .174 

VII. "Ah! who can say, however fair his View," . . 175 

VIII. "And must thou go?" . ' . . • .175 

IX. "When I sit musing on the chequered Past," . . 176 

X. " When high Romance, o'er every Wood and Stream," . 176 

XL " Hushed is the Lyre," 177 

XII. " Once more, and yet once more," .... 177 

Fragment, "Loud rage the winds without," . . • 177 

Verses, " When Pride and Envy," . . . .179 

On Whit Monday, ..... 180 

On the Death of Dermody, the Poet, . . . 181 

Song, The wonderful Juggler, . . . . 183 

Sonnet, To my Mother, . . . . . .185 

" Sweet to the gay of heart," .... 185 

" Quick o'er the wintry waste," .... 186 

TIME, . 187 

THE CHRISTIAD, 207 

POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF 
CLIFTON GROVE. 

Childhood, Part I., 22a 

IL, . . . . . . 225 

Fragment of an Eccentric Drama, .... 234 

To a Friend, ..... . . 240 

On reading the Poems of Warton, .... 241 

To the Muse, ....... 243 



CONTENTS. XV 

PAGE 

Song, "Softlj; softly blow, ye breezes," . . . , 244 

The Wandering Boy, ...... 245 

Fragment, "The Western Gale," . . . . . 246 

Canzonet, ....... 249 

Commencement of a Poem on Despair, .... 249 

To the Wind, a Fragment, . . . . . 251 

The Eve of Death, . . . . . .252 

Thanatos, ....... 253 

Athanatos, ....... 254 

On Music, ....... 256 

Ode to the Harvest Moon, . . . . .257 

The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song, . . . , ^ 259 



PROSE COMPOSITIONS. 

Remarks on the English Poets, ..... 265 

Sternhold and Hopkins, . . . . . 268 
Remarks on the English Poets. Warton, . . .271 

Cursory Remarks on Tragedy, .... 275 

Melancholy Hours, No. I., ..... 281 

II., 284 

III., 289 

IV., 295 

v., .300 

VL, ..... 306 

VII., ..... 312 

VIIL, . . . . . 317 

IX., 322 

X., . . . . . 331 

XL, . . . . .334 

XIL, 338 



x^i CONTENTS, 



REFLECTIONS. 

PAGE 

I. On Prayer, ....... 347 

11. . . 351 

III. 355 



LIFE. 



Henry Kirke White, tlie second sou of John and 
Mary White, was born in ^N'ottingham, March 21st, 
1785. His father was a butcher; his mother, whose 
maiden name was ^Neville, is of a respectable Stafford- 
shire family. 

From the years of three till Rye, Henry learnt to read 
at the school of Mrs. Garrington ; whose name, unim- 
portant as it may appear, is mentioned, because she had 
the good sense to perceive his extraordinary capacity, and 
spoke of what it promised with confidence. She was an 
excellent woman, and he describes her with affection in 
his poem upon Childhood. At a very early age his love 
of reading was decidedly manifested ; it was a passion 
to which everything else gave way. "I could fancy," 
says his eldest sister, " I see him in his little chair, with 
a large book upon his knee, and my mother calling, 
' Henry, my love, come to dinner ;' which was repeated 
so often without being regarded, that she was obliged to 
change the tone of her voice before she could rouse 
him." When he was about seven, he would creep un- 
perceived into the kitchen, to teach the servant to read 
and write ; and he continued this for some time before it 

2 



18 LIFE OF 

was discovered tliat lie had been thus laudably employed. 
He wrote a tale of a Swiss emigrant, which was proba- 
bly his first composition, and gave it to this servant, being 
ashamed to show it to his mother, y The consciousness 
of genius is always at first accompanied with this diffi- 
dence ; it is a sacred, solitary feeling, j 'No forward child, 
however extraordinary the promise of his childhood, ever 
produced anything truly great. 

When Henry was about six, he was placed under the 
Rev. John Blanchard, who kept, at that time, the best 
school in Nottingham. Here he learnt writing, arith- 
metic, and French. When he was about eleven, he one 
day wrote a separate theme for every boy in his class, 
which consisted of about twelve or fourteen. The master 
said he had never known them write so well upon any 
subject before, and could not refrain from expressing 
his astonishment at the excellence of Henry's. It was 
considered as a great thing for him to be at so good a 
school, yet there were some circumstances which ren- 
dered it less advantageous to him than it might have 
been. Mrs. White had not yet overcome her husband's 
intention of breeding him up to his own business : and 
by an arrangement which took up too much of his time, 
and would have crushed his spirit, if that " mounting 
spirit" could have been crushed, one whole day in the 
week, and his leisure hours on the others, were employed 
in carrying the butcher's basket. Some difterences at 
length arose between his father and Mr. Blanchard, in 
consequence of which Henry was removed. 



HENEY KIR KE WHITE. 10 

One of the ushers, when he came to receive the money 
clue for tuition, took the opportunity of informing Mrs. 
White what an incorrigible son she had, and that it was 
impossible to make the lad do anything. This informa- 
tion made his friends very uneasy ; they were dispirited 
about him ; and had they relied wholly upon this report, 
the stupidity or malice of this man would have blasted 
Henry's progress forever. He was, however, placed 
under the care of a Mr. Shipley, who soon discovered 
that he was a boy of quick perception and very admira- 
ble talents, and came with joy, like a good man, to 
relieve the anxiety and painful suspicions of his family. 

While his schoolmasters were complaining that they 
could make nothing of him, he discovered what ISTature 
had made him, and wrote satires upon them. These 
pieces were never shown to any except his most particu- 
lar friends, who say that they were pointed and severe. 
They are enumerated in the table of contents to one of 
his manuscript volumes, under the title of School Lam- 
poons ; but, as was to be expected, he had cut the leaves 
out and destroyed them. 

One of his poems written at this time, and under 
these feelings, is preserved. 

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEASANT 
MORNING IN SPRING. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEX. 

The morning sun's enchanting rays 
Now call forth every songsters praise ; 



20 



LIFE OF 

Now the lark with upward flight, 
Gaily ushers in the light; 
While wildly warbling from each tree, 
The birds sing songs to liberty. 

But for me no sono-ster sincjs, 
For me yK) joyous lark up-springs 5 
For I, confined in gloomy school, 
Must own the pedant's iron rule. 
And far from sylvan shades and bowers, 
In durance vile must pass the hours ; 
There con the scholiast's dreary lines. 
Where no bright ray of genius shines. 
And close to rugged learnino; clino:, 
While laughs around the jocund spring. 

How gladly would my soul forego 
All that arithmeticians know, 
Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, 
Or all that industry can reach, 
To taste each morn of all the joys 
That with the laughing sun arise ; 
And unconstrained to rove along 
The bushy brakes and glens among; 
And woo the muse's gentle power 
In unfrequented rural bower ! 
But ah ! such heav'n-approacliing joys 
Will never greet my longing eyes ; 
Still will they cheat in vision fine. 
Yet never but in fancy shine. 

Oh, that I were the little wren 
That shrilly chirps from yonder glen ! 
Oh, far away I then would rove, 
To some secluded bushy grove; 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 21 

There hop and sing with careless glee, 
Hop and sing at liberty ; 
And till death should stop my lays, 
Far from men would spend my days. 

About tliis time liis motlier was induced, by tlie ad- 
vice of several friends, to open a ladies' boarding and 
day scliool in ^ottingbam, ber eldest daughter baving 
previously been a teacber in one for some time. In tbis 
sbe succeeded beyond ber most sanguine expectations, 
and Henry's bome comforts were tbus materially in- 
creased, tbougb it was still out of tbe power of bis 
family to give bim tbat education and direction in life 
wbicb bis talents deserved and required. 

It was now determined to breed bim up to tbe bosiery 
trade, tbe staple manufacture of bis native place, and at 
tbe age of fourteen be was placed in a stocking-loom, 
witb tbe view, at some future period, of getting a situa- 
tion in a bosier's warebouse. During tbe time tbat be 
was tbus employed, be migbt be said to be truly un- 
bappy ; be went to bis work witb evident reluctance, 
and could not refrain from sometimes binting bis extreme 
aversion to it : but tbe circumstances of bis family 
obliged tbem to turn a deaf ear.* His motber, bowever, 

* His temper and tone of mind at this period, when he was in his four- 
teenth year, are displayed in this extract from an Addrkss to Contempla- 
tion. 

Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, 

The soother of my cares, inspiring peace ; 
And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave, 
And blame and censure me, that I don't tie 
My ev'ry thought down to the desk, and spend 



22 



LIFE OF 



secretly felt that lie was wortliy of better tilings : to her 
he spoke more openly : he could not bear, he said, the 

The morning of my life in adding figures 

Witli accurate monotony ; tliat so 

The good things of tlie world may be my lot, 

And I might taste tlie blessedness of wealth : 

But, oh ! I was not made for money getting ; 

For me no much-respected plum awaits, 

Nor civic honor; envied. For as still 

I tried to cast with school dexterity 

The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts 

Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, 

Which fond remembrance cherished, and the pen 

Dropt from my senseless fingers as I pictured. 

In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent 

I ere while wandered with my early friends 

In social intercourse. And then Td think 

How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, 

One from the other, scattered o'er the globe ; * 

They were set down with sober steadiness, 

Each to his occupation. I alone, 

A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries. 

Remained unsettled, insecure, and veering 

With ev'ry wind to ev'ry point o' th' compass. 

Yes, in the Counting House I could indulge 

In fits of close abstraction ; yea, amid 

The busy bustling crowds could meditate. 

And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away 

Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. 

Ay, Contemplation, ev'n in earliest youth 

I wooed thy heavenly influence! I would walk 

A weary way when all my toils were done, 

To lay myself at night in some lone wood, 



11 E N R Y K 1 R K E W II 1 T E. 28 

tlionglit of spending seven j-ears of his life in shining 
and fokling up stockings; lie wanted somdJiimj to occupy 
his brain, and he should be wretched if he continued 
longer at this trade, or indeed in anything except one of 
the learned professions. These frequent complaints, 
after a year's api)lication, or rather misapplication (as his 
brother says), at the loom, convinced her that he had a 

And hear the sweet song of the ni};htinfrale. 

Oh, those were times of happiness, and still 

To memory doubly dear; for growing years 

Had not then taught me man was made to mourn ; 

And a short hour of solitary pleasure, 

Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense 

For all the hateful hustles of the day. 

My opning mind was ductile then, and plastic, 

And soon the marks of care were worn away. 

While I was swayed by every novel imptdse. 

Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. 

But it has now assumed its character ; 

Marked by strong lineaments, its haughty tone. 

Like the firm oak, would sooner break Uian bend. 

Yet still, oh, Conteinplation ! I do love 

To indulge thy solenm musings; still the same 

With thee alone I know to melt and weep, 

In thee alone delighting. Why along 

The dusky track of commerce should I toil, 

When with an easy competence content, 

I can alone be liappy ; where with thee 

I may enjoy the loveliness of nature. 

And loose the wings of Fancy ! — Thus alone 

Can I partake of happiness on earth ; 

And to be happy here is man's chief end, 

For to be happy he must needs be good. 



i^4 ^ LIFE OF 

mind destined for nobler pursuits. To one so situated, 
and with nothing hut his own talents and exertions to 
depend upon, the Law seemed to he the only practicable 
line. His aiiectionate and excellent mother made every 
possible efibrt to effect his wishes, his father being very 
averse to th e plan, and at length, after overcoming a variety 
of obstacles, he was fixed in the office of Messrs. Coldham 
and Enfield, attorneys and town-clerks of I^ottingham. 
As no premium could be given with him, he was en- 
gaged to serve two years before he was articled, so that 
though he entered this office when he was fifteen, he was 
not articled till the commencement of the year 1802. 

On thus entering the law, it was recommended to him 
by his employers, that he should endeavor to obtain 
some knowledge of Latin. He had now only the little 
time which an attorney's office, in very extensive prac- 
tice, afforded; but great things may be done in ^' those 
hours of leisure which even the busiest may create,"* 
and to his ardent mind no obstacles were too discourag- 
ing. He received some instruction in the first rudiments 
of this language from a person who then resided at Not- 
tingham under a feigned name, but was soon obliged to 
leave it, to elude the search of government, who were 
then seeking to secure him. Henry discovered him to 
be Mr. Cormick, from a print affixed to a continuation 
of Hume and Smollett, and published, with their histo- 
ries, by Cooke. He is, I believe, the same person who 
wrote a life of Burke. If he received any other assis- 

* Turner's Preface to the History of the Anglo-Saxons. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 25 

tauce, it was very trifling ; yet, in tlie course of ten 
months, he enabled himself to read Horace with tolera- 
ble facility, and had made some progress in Greek, which 
indeed he began first. He used to exercise himself in 
declining the Greek nouns and verbs as he was going to 
and from the office, so valuable was time become to him. 
From this time he contracted a habit of employing his 
mind in study during his walks, which he continued to 
the end of his life. 

He now became almost estranged from his family; 
even at his meals he would be reading, and his evenings 
were entirely devoted to intellectual improvement. He 
had a little room given him, which wms called his study, 
and here his milk supper was taken up to him ; for, to 
avoid any loss of time, he refused to sup with his family, 
though earnestly entreated so to do, as his mother already 
beo-an to dread the effiacts of this severe and unremit- 
ting application. The law was his first pursuit, to which 
his papers show he had applied himself with such indus- 
try, as to make it wonderful that he could have found 
time, busied as his days were, for anything else. Greek 
and Latin were the next objects: at the same time he 
made himself a tolerable Italian scholar, and acquired 
some knowledge both of the Spanish and Portuguese. 
His medical friends say that the knowledge he had ob- 
tained of chemistry was very respectable. Astronomy 
and electricity were among his studies : some attention 
he paid to drawing, in which it is probable he would 
have excelled. He was passionately fond of music, and 



26 LIFE OF 

could play very pleasingly by ear on the piano-forte, 
composing the bass to the air he was playing ; but this 
propensity he checked, lest it might interfere with more 
important objects. He had a turn for mechanics, and all 
the fittings up of his study were the work of his own 
hands. 

At a very early age, indeed soon after he was taken 
from school, Henry was ambitious of being admitted a 
member of a Literary Society then existing in I^ottingham, 
but was objected to on account of his youth : after re- 
peated attempts, and repeated failures, he succeeded in 
his wish, through the exertion of some of his friends, 
and was elected. In a very short time, to the great sur- 
prise of the Society, he proposed to give them a lecture, 
and they, probably from curiosity, acceded to the propo- 
sal. The next evening they assembled : he lectured upon 
Genius, and spoke extempore for above two hours, in 
such a manner, that he received the unanimous thanks 
of the Society, and they elected this young Roscius of 
oratory their Professor of Literature. There are certain 
courts at [N'ottingham, in which it is necessary for an at- 
torney to plead ; and he wished to qualify himself for an 
eloquent speaker, as well as a sound lawyer. 

With the profession in which he was placed, he was 
well pleased, and sufiered no pursuit, numerous as his 
pursuits were, to interfere in the slightest degree with 
his duties. Yet he soon began to have higher aspira- 
tions, and to cast a wistful eye towards the universities, 
with little hope of ever attaining their important advan- 



HENKY KIRKE WHITE. 27 

tages, yet probably not without some hope, however 
faint. There was at this time a magazine in publication, 
called the Monthly Preceptor, which proposed prize 
themes for boys and girls to write upon ; and which was 
encouraged by many schoolmasters, some of whom, for 
their own credit, and that of the important institutions 
in which they were placed, should have known better 
than to encourage it. But in schools, and in all practi- 
cal systems of education, emulation is made the main- 
spring, as if there were not enough of the leaven of 
disquietude in our natures, without inoculating it with 
this dilutement — this vaccine-virus of envy. True it is, 
that we need encouragement in youth ; that though our 
vices spring up and thrive in shade and darkness, like 
poisonous fungi, our better powers require light and air ; 
and that praise is the sunshine, without which genius 
will wither, fade, and die ; or rather in search of which, 
like a plant that is debarred from it, will push forth in 
contortions and deformity. But such practices as that 
of writing for public prizes, of publicly declaiming, and 
of enacting plays before the neighboring gentry, teach 
boys to look for applause instead of being satisfied with 
approbation, and foster in them that vanity which needs 
no such cherishing. This is administering stimulants to 
the heart, instead of " feeding it with food convenient 
for it;" and the efi:ect of such stimulants is to dwarf 
the human mind, as lapdogs are said to be stopped in 
their growth by being dosed with gin. Thus forced, it 
becomes like the sapling which shoots up when it should 



-» LIFE OF 

be striking its roots far and deep, and wliicli therefore 
never attains to more tlian a sapling's size. 

To Henry, however, the opportunity of distinguishing 
himself, even in the Juvenile Library, was useful : if he 
had acted with a man's foresight, he could not have done 
more wisely than by aiming at every distinction within 
his little sphere. At the age of fifteen, he gained a 
silver medal for a translation from Horace ; and the fol- 
lowing year a pair of twelve inch globes, for an imaginary 
Tour from London to Edinburgh. He determined upon 
trying for this prize one evening when at tea with his 
family, and at supper he read to them his performance, 
to which seven pages was granted in the mag^azine, 
though they had limited the allowance of room to three. 
Shortly afterwards he won several books for exercises on 
diflerent subjects. Such honors were of great impor- 
tance to him ; they were testimonies of his ability, which 
could not be suspected of partiality, and they prepared 
his father to regard with less reluctance that change in 
his views and wishes which afterwards took place. 

He now became a correspondent in the Monthly 
Mirror, a magazine which first set the example of typo- 
graphical neatness in periodical publications, which has 
given the world a good series of portraits, and which de- 
serves praise also on other accounts, having among its con- 
tributors some persons of extensive erudition and acknow- 
ledged talents. Magazines are of great service to those 
who are learning to write ; they are fishing-boats, which 
the buccaneers of literature do not condescend to sink. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 29 

burn, and destroy: young poets may safely try their 
strength in them ; and that they should try their strength 
before the public, without danger of any shame from 
failure, is highly desirable, Henry's rapid improvement 
was now as remarkable as his unwearied industry. The 
pieces which had been rewarded in the Juvenile Pre- 
ceptor, might have been rivalled by many boys ; but 
what he produced a year afterwards, few men could 
equal. Those which appeared in the Monthly Mirror 
attracted some notice, and introduced him to the acquain- 
tance of Mr. Capel Lofft, and of Mr. Hill, the proprietor 
of the work, a gentleman who is himself a lover of 
English literature, and who has probably the most 
copious collection of English poetry in existence. Their 
encouragement induced him, about the close of the year 
1802, to prepare a little volume of poems for the press. 
It was his hope that this publication might, either by 
the success of its sale, or the notice which it might excite, 
enable him to prosecute his studies at college, and fit 
himself for the Church. For though so far was he from 
feeling any dislike to his own profession, that he was 
even attached to it, and had indulged a hope that one 
day or other he should make his way to the bar, a deaf- 
ness, to which he had always been subject, and which 
appeared to grow progressively worse, threatened to pre- 
clude all possibility of advancement ; and his opinions, 
which had at one time inclined to deism, had now taken 
a strong devotional bias. 

Henry was earnestly advised to obtain, if possible, 



30 



LIFE OF 



some patroness for liis book, whose rank in life, and 
notoriety in the literary world, might afford it some 
protection. The days of dedications are happily well- 
nigh at an end ; hnt this was of importance to him, as 
giving his little volume consequence in the eyes of his 
friends and townsmen. The Countess of Derby was first 
applied to, and the manuscript submitted to her perusal. 
She returned it with a refusal, upon the ground that it 
was an invariable rule with her never to accept a compli- 
ment of the kind ; but this refusal was couched in lan- 
guage as kind as it was complimentary, and he felt more 
pleasure at the kindness which it expressed, than disap- 
pointment at the failure of his application : a two pound 
note was enclosed as her subscription to the work. The 
Margravine of Anspach was also thought of. There is 
amongst his papers the draught of a letter addressed to 
her upon the subject, but I believe it was never sent. 
He was then recommended to apply to the Duchess of 
Devonshire. Poor Henry felt a fit repugnance at court- 
ing patronage in this way, but he felt that it was of 
consequence in his little world, and submitted ; and the 
manuscript was left, with a letter, at the Devonshire 
House, as it had been with the Countess of Derby. Some 
time elapsed, and no answer arrived from her Grace ; 
and as she was known to be pestered with such applica- 
tions, apprehensions began to be entertained for the 
safety of the papers. His brother IN'eville (who was now 
settled in London) called several times; of course he 
never obtained an interview: the case at last became 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 31 

desperate, and lie went witli a determination not to quit 
tlie house till lie liad obtained them. After waiting four 
liours in the servants' hall, his perseverance conquered 
their idle insolence, and he got possession of the manu- 
script. And here he, as well as his brother, sick of 
"dancing attendance" upon the great, would have re- 
linquished all thoughts of the dedication ; but they were 
urofed to make one more trial : — a letter to her Grace 
was procured, with which ^N'eville obtained audience, 
wisely leaving the manuscript at home ; and the Duchess, 
with her usual good nature, gave permission that the 
volume should be dedicated to her. Accordingly her 
name appeared in the title page, and a copy was trans- 
mitted to her in due form, and in its due morocco livery, 
of which no notice was ever taken. Involved as she 
was in an endless round of miserable follies, it is proba- 
ble that she never opened the book ; otherwise her heart 
was good enough to have felt a pleasure in encouraging 
the author. Oh, what a lesson would the history of that 
heart hold out ! 

Henry sent his little volume to each of the then exist- 
ing Reviews, and accompanied it with a letter, wherein 
he stated what his advantages had been, and what were 
the hopes which he proposed to himself from the publi- 
cation : requesting from them that indulgence of which 
his productions did not stand in need, and which it 
might have been thought, under such circumstances, 
would not have been withheld from works of less promise. 
It may be well conceived with what anxiety he looked 



32 LIFE OF 

for tlieir opinions, and witli what feelings lie read the 
following article in the Monthly Review for February, 
1804:— 

^' The circumstances under which this little volume is 
offered to the public, must, in some measure, disarm criti- 
cism. We have been informed, that Mr. "Wliite has 
scarcely attained his eighteenth year, has hitherto exerted 
himself in the pursuit of knowledge under the discour- 
agements of penury and misfortune, and now hopes by 
this early authorship, to obtain some assistance in the 
prosecution of his studies at Cambridge. He appears, 
indeed, to be one of those young men of talents and 
application who merit encouragement ; and it would be 
gratifying to us, to hear that this publication had obtained 
for him a respectable patron, for we fear that the mere 
profit arising from the sale cannot be, in any measure, 
adequate to his exigencies as a student at the university. 
A subscription, with a statement of the particulars of 
the author's case, might have been calculated to have 
answered his purpose ; but, as a book which is to ' win 
its way' on the sole ground of its own merit, this poem 
cannot be contemplated with any sanguine expectation. 
The author is very anxious, however, that critics should 
fi.nd in it something to commend, and he shall not be 
disappointed : we commend his exertions, and his lauda- 
ble endeavors to excel ; but we cannot compliment him 
with having learned the difficult art of writing good 
poetry. 



HEXRY KIRK E WHITE. 33 

"Such lines as these will sufficiently prove our 
assertion : — 

"' Here would I run, a visionary Boij^ 

When the hoarse thunder shook the vaulted Sky, 
And, fancy led, beheld the Almighty's form 
Sternlv careerinn in the eddvin"- storm.' 

" If Mr. White should be instructed by Alma-mater, he 
will, doubtless, produce better sense and better rhymes." 

I know not w^ho was the waiter of this precious article. 
It is certain that Henry could have no personal enemy ; 
his volume fell into the hands of some dull man, wdio 
took it up in an hour of ill-humor, turned over the leaves 
to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky were not 
orthodox rhymes, according to his wise creed of criticism, 
sate down to blast the hopes of a boy, who had confessed 
to him all his hopes and all his difficulties, and thrown 
himself upon his mercy. With such a letter before him 
(by mere accident I saw that which had been sent to the 
Critical Review), even though the poems had been bad, 
a good man w^ould not have said so ; he w^ould have 
avoided cerisure, if he had found it impossible to bestow 
praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked 
injustice, as well as the cruelty of this reviewal, a few 
specimens of the volume, thus contemptuously con- 
demned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, 

shall be inserted in this place. 

3 



34 LIFE OF 

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY * 
I. 

Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 
On January's front severe, 
And o'er the wintery desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume ! 
Come, thou Shalt form my nosegay now, 
And I will bind thee round my brow ; 

And as 1 twine the mournful wreath, 
I'll weave a melancholy song, 
And sweet the strain shall be and long, 
The melody of death. 

II. 

Come, funeral flow'r ! who loVst to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb. 
And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 
Come, press my lips, and lie with me 
Beneath the lowly Alder tree, 

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
And not a care shall dare intrude, 
To break the marble solitude, 
So peaceful, and so deep. 

III. 

And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest-trees. 
And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
* The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the 
coflans of the dead. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 35 

The cold turf altar of the dead ! 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou Avilt o'er my ashes shed. 

TO THE MORNING. 

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. 

Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail 
Your dubious hues, as on the robe 
Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, 

I mark your traces pale. 
Tired with the taper's sickly light. 
And with the wearying numbered night, 

I hail the streaks of morn divine : 
And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths 

That round my rural casement twine ; 
The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes. 
It fans my feverish brow, — it calms the mental strife, 
And cheerily reillumes the lambent flame of life. 



The Lark has her gay song begun. 

She leaves her grassy nest. 
And soars till the unrisen sun 

Gleams on her speckled breast. 
Now let me leave my restless bed. 
And o'er the spangled uplands tread ; 

Now through the customed wood-walk wend ; 
By many a green lane lies my way. 

Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, 

Till on the mountain's summit gray, 
I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. 

Oh, Heaven ! the soft refreshing gale 
It breathes into my breast, 



36 



LIFE OF 

My sunk eye gleams, my cheek so pale^ 

Is witli new colors drest. 
Blithe Health I thou soul of life and ease ! 
Come thou too, on the balmy breeze. 

Invigorate my frame : 
I'll join with thee the buskined chase, 
With thee the distant clime will trace, 

Beyond those clouds of flame. 

Above, below, what charms unfold 

In all the varied view ! 
Before me all is burnished gold, 

Behind the twilight's hue. 
The mists which on old Niofht await, 
Far to the west they hold their state, 

They shun the clear blue face of Morn ; 

Along the fine cerulean sky 

The fleecy clouds successive fly, 
While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. 

And hark ! the Thatcher has beofun 

His whistle on the eaves, 
And oft the Hedger's bill is heard 

Among the rustling leaves. 
The slow team creaks upon the road, 

The noisy whip resounds. 
The driver's voice, his carol blithe, 
The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe, 

Mix with the morning's sounds. 

Who would not rather take his seat 

Beneath these clumps of trees. 
The early dawn of day to greet, 

And catch the healthy breeze, 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 37 

Than on the silken couch of Sloth 

Luxurious to lie ; 
Who would not from life's dreary waste 
Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, 

An interval of joy ! 

To him who simply thus recounts 

The morning's pleasures o'er, 
Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close 

To ope on him no more. 
Yet, Morning ! unrepiuing still 

He'll greet thy beams awhile. 
And surely thou, when o'er his grave 
Solemn the whisp'ring willows wave, 

Wilt sweetly on him smile ; 
And the pale glow-worm's pensive light 
Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. 

An author is proof against reviewing, when, like my- 
self, he has been reviewed above seventy times ; but the 
opinion of a reviewer upon his first publication, has more 
effect, both upon his feelings and his success, than it 
ought to have, or would have, if the mystery of the 
ungentle craft were more generally understood. Henry 
wrote to the editor, to complain of the cruelty with which 
he had been treated. This remonstrance produced the 
following answer in the next month : — 

Monthly Review, March, 1804. 
ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS. 

"In the course of our long critical labors, we have 
necessarily been forced to encounter the resentment, or 
withstand the lamentations of many disappointed authors : 



38 LIFE OF 

but we liave seldom, if ever, been more affected than by 
a letter from ^Ir. White, of Nottingham, complaining of 
the tendency of our strictures on his poem of Clifton 
Grove, in our last number. His expostulations are writ- 
ten with a warmth of feeling in which we truly sympa- 
thize, and which shall readily excuse, with us, some 
expressions of irritation : but Mr. White must receive 
our most serious declaration, that we did 'judge of the 
book by the book itself;' excepting only, that from his 
former letter, we were desirous of mitigating the pain of 
that decision which our public duty required us to pro- 
nounce. We spoke with the utmost sincerity, when we 
stated our wishes for patronage to an unfriended man of 
talents, for talents Mr. White certainly possesses, and we 
repeat those wishes with equal cordiality. Let him still 
trust that, like Mr. Giffard (see preface to his translation 
of Juvenal), some Mr. Cookesley may yet appear, to fos- 
ter a capacity which endeavors to escape from its present 
confined sphere of action ; and let the opulent inhabi- 
tants of Xottingham reflect, that some portion of that 
wealth which they have worthily acquired by the habits 
of industry, will be laudably applied in assisting the 
efforts of mind." 

Henry was not aware that reviewers are infallible. His 
letter seems to have been answered by a different writer ; 
the answer has none of the common-place and vulgar 
insolence of the criticism ; but to have made any conces- 
sion, would have been admitting that a review can do 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



39 



wrong, and thus violating the fundamental principle of 
its constitution. 

The poems which had been thus condemned, appeared 
to me to discover strong marks of genius. I had shown 
them to two of my friends, than whom no persons living 
better understand what poetry is, nor have given better 
proofs of it ; and their opinion coincided with my own. 
I was fully convinced of the injustice of this criticism, 
and having: accidentallv seen the letter which he had 
written to the reviewers, understood the whole cruelty of 
their injustice. In consequence of this I wrote to Henry, 
to encourage him ; told him, that though I was well aware 
how imprudent it was in young poets to publish their 
productions, his circumstances seemed to render that ex- 
pedient, from which it would otherwise be right to dis- 
suade him ; advised him, therefore, if he had no better 
prospects, to print a larger volume by subscription, and 
offered to do what little was in my power to serve him 
in the business. To this he replied in the following 

letter : — 

****** 

"I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion of 
my little volume. The extreme acrimony with which 
the Monthly Review (of all others the most important) 
treated me, threw me into a state of stupefaction ; I re- 
garded all that had passed as a dream, and thought I had 
been deluding m^^self into an idea of possessing poetic 
genius, when in fact I had only the longing, without the 
afflatus. I mustered resolution enough, however, to ^Tite 



40 LIFE OF 

spiritedly to them : their answer, in the ensuing number, 
was a tacit acknowledgment that they had been some- 
what too unsparing in their correction. It was a poor 
attempt to salve over a wound wantonly and most unge- 
nerously inflicted. Still I was damped, because I knew 
the work w^as very respectable, and therefore could not, 
I concluded, give a criticism grossly deficient in equity — 
the more especially, as I knew of no sort of inducement 
to extraordinary severity. Your letter, however, has 
revived me, and I do again venture to hope that I may 
still produce something which will survive me. 

" "With regard to your advice and offers of assistance, 
I will not attempt, because I am unable, to thank you 
for them. To-morrow morning I depart for Cambridge, 
and I have considerable hopes that, as I do not enter 
into the University with any sinister or interested views, 
but sincerely desire to perform the duties of an affec- 
tionate and vigilant pastor, and become more useful to 
mankind, I therefore have hopes, I say, that I shall find 
means of support in the University. If I do not, I shall 
certainly act in pursuance of your recommendations; 
and shall, without hesitation, avail myself of your ofters 
of service, and of your directions. 

"In a short time this will be determined; and when it 
is, I shall take the liberty of writing to you at Keswick, 
to make you acquainted with the result. 

" I have only one objection to publishing by subscrip- 
tion, and I confess it has weight with me, — it is, that in 
this step, I shall seem to be acting upon the advice so 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 41 

unfeelingly and contnmeliously given by tlie Monthly 
Reviewers, who say what is equal to this — that had I 
gotten a subscription for my poems before their merit 
was known, I might have succeeded ; provided, it seems, 
I had made a particular statement of my case ; like a beg- 
gar, who stands with his hat in one hand, and a full 
account of his cruel treatment on the coast of Barbar}^ 
in the other, and so gives you his penny sheet for your 
sixpence, by way of half-purchase, half-charity. 

^' I have materials for another volume, but they were 
written principally while Clifton Grove was in the press, 
or soon after, and do not now at all satisfy me. Indeed, 
of late, I have been obliged to desist, almost entirely, 
from converse with the dames of Helicon. The drudgery 
of an attorney's office, and the necessity of preparing 
myself, in case I should succeed in getting to college, in 
what little leisure I could boast, left no room for the 
flights of the imagination." 

In another letter he speaks, in still stronger terms, of 
what he had suflTered from the unfeeling and iniquitous 
criticism. 

" The unfavorable review (in the Monthly) of my 
unhappy work, has cut deeper than you could have 
thought ; not in a literary point of view, but as it affects 
my respectability. It represents me actually as a beggar, 
going about gathering money to put myself to college, 
when my book is worthless ; and this with every appear- 
ance of candor. They have been sadly misinformed 



42 



LIFE OE 



respecting me : this review goes before me wherever I 
turn my steps ; it haunts me incessantly, and I am per- 
suaded it is an instrument in the hands of Satan to drive 
me to distraction. I must leave ^Nottingham. " 

It is not unworthy of remark, that this very reviewal, 
which was designed to crush the hopes of Henry, and 
suppress his struggling genius, has been, in its conse- 
quences, the main occasion of bringing his Remains to 
light, and obtaining for him that fame which assuredly 
will be his portion. Had it not been for the indignation 
which I felt at perusing a criticism at once so cruel and 
so stupid, the little intercourse between Henry and my- 
self would not have taken place ; his papers would pro- 
bably have remained in oblivion, and his name, in a few 
years, have been forgotten. 

I have stated that his opinions were, at one time, in- 
clining towards deism : it needs not to be said on what 
slight grounds the opinions of a youth must needs be 
founded : while they are confined to matters of specula- 
tion, they indicate, whatever their eccentricities, only an 
active mind ; and it is only when a propensity is mani- 
fested to such principles as give a sanction to immorality, 
that they show something wrong at heart. One little 
poem of Henry's remains, which was written in this 
unsettled state of mind. It exhibits much of his cha- 
racter, and can excite no feelings towards him, but such 
as are favorable. 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 43 

MY OWN CHARACTER. 

ADDRESSED (dURING ILLNESs) TO A LADY. 

Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, 

To give you a sketch — ay, a sketch of myself, 

'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess. 

And one it would puzzle a painter to dress ; 

But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, 

I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun ; 

For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her. 

She wont be a cynical father confessor. 

Come, come, 'twill not do I put that curling brow down ; 

You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. 

Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction. 

That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction ; 

Religious — Deistic — now loyal and warm ; 

Then a dagger-drawn Democrat hot for reform ; 

This moment a fop — that, sententious as Titus | 

Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus ; 

Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle ; 

Then vexed to the soul with impertinent tattle ; 

Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay ; 

To all points of the compass I veer in a day. 

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child. 
But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild ; 
As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute ; 
Then as for politeness — oh ! dear — I'm a brute ! 
I show no respect where I never can feel it ; 
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it. 
And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, 
I've a great many foes, and a very few friends. 

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel. 
That this proud heart of mine is not fashioned of steel. 



^4 L I F E E 

It can love (can it not ?) — it can hate, I am sure ; 
And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor. 
For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds ; 
If it have not Hpe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds; 
And though far from faultless, or even so-so, 
I think it may pass as our worldly things go. 

Well I've told you my frailties without any gloss ; 

Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss ! 

I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say. 

But in process of time I may get the wrong way. 

I'm a general lover, if that's commendation. 

And yet can't withstand you Jcnoio loJiose fascination. 

But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, 

In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices ; 

So as for the good, why, if I possess it, 

I am not yet learned enough to express it. 

You yourself must examine the lovelier side, 
And after your every art you have tried. 
Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, 
Hypocrisy never will come in your way. 
I am upright, I hope ; I am downright, I'm clear ! 
And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere ; 
And if ever sincerity glowed in my breast, 
'Tis now when I swear "^ * 

About this time Mr. Pigott, the curate of St. Mary's, 
Nottingham, hearing what was the bent of his religious 
opinions, sent him, by a friend, Scott's "Force of Truth," 
and requested him to peruse it attentively, which he 
promised to do. Having looked at the book, he told the 
person who brought it to him, that he could soon write 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 45 

an answer to it ; but about a fortnight afterwards, when 
this friend inquired how far he had proceeded in his 
answer to Mr. Scott, Henry's reply was in a very different 
tone and temper. He said, that to answer that book 
was out of his power, and out of any man's, for it was 
founded upon eternal truth ; that it had convinced him 
of his error ; and that so thoroughly w^as he impressed 
with a sense of the importance of his Maker's favor, that 
he would willingly give up all acquisitions of knowledge, 
and all hopes of fame, and live in a wilderness, unknown, 
till death, so he could insure an inheritance in heaven. 

A new pursuit was thus opened to him, and he en- 
gaged in it with his wonted ardor. "It was a constant 
feature in his mind," says Mr. Pigott, "to persevere in 
the pursuit of what he deemed noble and important. 
Religion, in which he now appeared to himself not yet 
to have taken a step, engaged all his anxiety, as of all 
concerns the most important. He could not rest satisfied 
till he had formed his principles upon the basis of Chris- 
tianity, and till he had begun in earnest to think and act 
agreeably to its pure and heavenly precepts. His mind 
loved to make distant excursions into the future and 
remote consequences of things. He no longer limited 
his views to the narrow confines of earthly existence ; 
he was not happy till he had learnt to rest and expatiate 
in a world to come. What he said to me when we be- 
came intimate is worthy of observation : that, he said, 
which first made him dissatisfied with the creed he had 
adopted, and the standard of practice which he had set 



46 L I F E F 

up for himself was the purity of mind whicli lie perceived 
was every where inculcated in the Holy Scriptures, and 
required of every one who would become a successful 
candidate for future blessedness. He supposed that 
morality of conduct was all the purity required ; but 
w^hen he observed that purity of the very thoughts and 
intentions of the soul also was requisite, he was convinced 
of his deficiencies, and could find no comfort to his peni- 
tence, but in the atonement made for human frailty by 
the Redeemer of mankind ; and no strength adequate 
to his weakness, and sufiicient for resisting evil, but the 
aid of God's Spirit, promised to those who seek him 
from above in the sincerity of earnest prayer." 

From the moment when he had fully contracted these 
opinions, he was resolved upon devoting his life to the 
promulgation of them ; and therefore to leave the law, 
and, if possible, place himself at one of the Universities. 
Every argument was used by his friends to dissuade him 
from his purpose, but to no effect : his mind was unal- 
terably fixed ; and great and numerous as the obstacles 
were, he w^as determined to surmount them all. He had 
now served the better half of the term for which he was 
articled ; his entrance and continuance in the profession 
had been a great expense to his family ; and to give up 
this lucrative profession, in the study of which he had 
advanced so far, and situated as he was, for one wherein 
there was so little prospect of his obtaining even a de- 
cent competency, appeared to them the height of folly 
or of madness. This determination cost his poor mother 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 47 

many tears; but determined he was, and that by the 
best and purest motives. Without ambition he could 
not have existed, but his ambition now was to be emi- 
nently useful in the ministry. 

It was Henry's fortune, through his short life, as he 
was worthy of the kindest treatment, always to find it. 
His employers, Mr. Coldham and Mr. Enfield, listened 
with a friendly ear to his plans, and agreed to give up 
the remainder of his time, though it was now become 
very valuable to them, as soon as they should think his 
prospects of getting through the University were such 
as he might reasonably trust to ; but till then, they felt 
themselves bound, for his own sake, to detain him. Mr. 
Pigott, and Mr. Dashwood, another clergyman, who at 
that time resided in Nottingham, exerted themselves in 
his favor: he had a friend at Queen's College, Cam- 
bridge, who mentioned him to one of the Fellows of St. 
John's, and that gentleman, on the representations made 
to him of Henry's talents and piety, spared no efibrt to 
obtain for him an adequate support. 

As soon as these hopes were laid out to him, his em- 
ployers gave him a month's leave of absence, for the 
benefit of uninterrupted study, and of change of air, 
which his health now began to require. Instead of 
going to the sea-coast, as was expected, he chose for his 
retreat the village of Wilford, which is situated on the 
banks of the Trent, and at the foot of Clifton Woods. 
These woods had ever been his favorite place of resort, 
and were the subject of the longest poem in his little 



48 L I F E F 

volume, from wliicli, indeed, the vokime was named. 
He delighted to point out to his more intimate friends 
the scenery of his poem ; the islet to which he had often 
forded when the river was not knee deep ; and the little 
hut wherein he had sate for hours, and sometimes all 
dav lono;, read ins; or writino\ or dreamins^ with his eves 
open. He had sometimes wandered in these woods till 
night far advanced, and used to speak with pleasure of 
havins: once been overtaken there bv a thunder storm at 
midnight, and watching the lightning over the river and 
the vale towards the town. 

In this village his mother procured lodgings for him, 
and his place of retreat was kept secret, except from his 
nearest friends. Soon after the expiration of the month, 
intelligence arrived that the plans which had been formed 
in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immediately 
to his mother : " All my hopes," said he, " of getting to 
the University are now blasted ; in preparing myself for 
it, I have lost time in my profession ; I have much 
ground to get up, and as I am determined not to be a 
mediocre attornev, I must endeavor to recover what I 
have lost." The consequence was, that he applied him- 
self more severely than ever to his studies. He now 
allowed himself no time for relaxation, little for his 
meals, and scarcely any for sleep. He would read till 
one, two, three o'clock in the morning ; then throw him- 
self on the bed, and rise again to his work at ^\^^ at the 
call of a larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch clock in 
his chamber. Many nights he never laid down at all. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 49 

It was in vain that his mother used every possible means 
to dissuade him from this destructive application. In 
this respect, and in this only one, was Henry undutiful, 
and neither commands, nor tears, nor entreaties, could 
check his desperate and deadly ardor. At one time she 
went every night into his room, to put out his candle : 
as soon as he heard her coming up stairs, he used to hide 
it in a cupboard, throw himself into bed, and afiect 
sleep while she was in the room; then, when all was 
quiet, rise again, and pursue his baneful studies. 

"The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, "has 
been everything to me ; and did the world know how I 
have been indebted to the hours of repose, they would 
not wonder that night images are, as they judge, so ridi- 
culously predominant in my verses." During some of 
these midnight hours he indulged himself in complain- 
ing, but in such complaints that it is to be wished more 
of them had been found among his papers. 

ODE OX DISAPPOIXTMEXT. 

I. 
Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Xot in thj terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
And round my brow resigned, thy peaceful cypress twine. 

4 



50 LIFE OF 



II. 



Though Fancy flies away 
Before thy hollow tread, 
Yet Meditation in her cell, 
Hears with faint eye, the lingi'ing knell, 
That tells her hopes are dead; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear, 
Yet she can smile, and say. My all was not laid here. 



III. 



Come, Disappointment, come 

Though from Hope's summit hurled. 
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven. 
For thou severe wert sent from heaven 
To wean me from the world ; 
To turn my eye 
From vanity, 
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 

IV. 

What is this passing scene? 

A peevish April day ! 
A little sun — a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain. 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discussed) 
Yields up his trust. 
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 



V. 



Oh, what is beauty's power ? 
It flourishes and dies ; 



H E N R Y K I R K E W H I T E. 61 

Will the cold earth its silence break, 
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies ? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no noore when mantled in her pall. 

YI. 

The most beloved on earth 

Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete, 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade. 
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 

YII. 

Then since this world is vain, 

And volatile and fleet, 
Why should I lay up earthly joys, 
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat? 
Why fly from ill 
With anxious skill, 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still ? 

VIII. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad Moni tress ! I own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run, 
I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done. 



52 LIFE OF 

On anotlier paper are a few lines, written probably in 
the freshness of his disappointment. 

I dream no more — the vision flies away, 
And Disappointment * * * 
There fell my hopes — I lost my all in this, 
My cherished all of visionary bliss. 
Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below ; 
Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. 
Plunge me in glooms * * * 

His health soon sunk under these habits ; he became 
pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. 
On his recovery, he wrote the following lines in the 
churchyard of his favorite village. 

LINES ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCHYARD. 

Here would I wish to sleep. — This is the spot 

Which I have long marked out to lay my bones in : 

Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, 

Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. 

It is a lovely spot ! the sultry sun, 

From his meridian height, endeavors vainly 

To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr 

Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, 

And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook 

Most pleasant. — Such a one perchance did Gray 

Frequent, as with the vagrant muse he wantoned. 

Come, I will sit me down and meditate, 

For I am wearied with my summer's walk ; 

And here I may repose in silent ease ; 

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

My harassed soul, in this same spot, may find 
The haven of its rest — beneath this sod 
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. 

I would not have my corpse cemented down 

With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm 

Of its predestined dues ; no, I would lie 

Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown. 

Swathed down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters. 

Yet may not undistinguished be my grave ; 

But there at eve may some congenial soul 

Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, 

The good man's benison — no more I ask. 

And oh ! (if heavenly beings may look down 

From where, with cherubim inspired, they sit, 

Upon this little dim-discovered spot, 

The earth), then will I cast a glance heloio 

On him who thus my ashes shall embalm ; 

And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer, 

Wishing he may not long be doomed to pine 

In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, 

But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. 

Yet 'twas a silly thought — as if the body. 
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth. 
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, 
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze I 
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, 
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond 
His narrow verge of being, and provide 
A decent residence for its clayey shell, 
Endeared to it by time. And who would lay 
His body in the city burial-place. 
To be thrown up again by some rude sexton. 
And yield its narrow house another tenant, 



53 



S4 LIFE OF 

Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, 

Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, 

Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness ? 

No, I will lay me in the village ground ; 

There are the dead respected. The poor hind, 

Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade 

The silent resting-place of death. I've seen 

The laborer, returning from his toil, 

Here stay his steps, and call his children round, 

And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes. 

And, in his rustic manner, moralize. 

I've marked with what a silent awe he'd spoken, 

With head uncovered, his respectful manner. 

And all the honors which he paid the grave. 

And thought on the cities, where even cemeteries. 

Bestrewed with all the emblems of mortality, 

Are not protected from the drunken insolence 

Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. 

Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close ! 

Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones 

May/lie — or in the city's crowded bounds, 

Or scattered wide o'er the huge sweep of waters. 

Or left a prey on some deserted shore 

To the rapacious cormorant, — yet still, 

(For why should sober reason cast away 

A thought which soothes the soul?) — yet still my spirit 

Shall wing its way to these my native regions, 

And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think 

Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew 

In solemn rumination •, and will smile 

With joy that I have got my longed release. 

His friends are of opinion that he never thoroughly 
recovered from the shock which his constitution had 



HENRY K HIKE WHITE. oo 

sustained. Many of his poems indicate that he thought 
himself in danger of consumption ; he was not aware 
that he was generating or fostering in himself another 
disease, little less dreadful, and which threatens intellect 
as well as life. At this time youth was in his favor, and 
his hopes, which were now again renewed, produced 
perhaps a better effect than medicine. Mr. Dashwood 
obtained for him an introduction to Mr. Simeon, of 
King's College, and with this he was induced to go to 
Cambridge. Mr. Simeon, from the recommendation 
which he received, and from the conversation he had 
with him, promised to procure for him a Sizarshix^ at 
St. John's, and, with the additional aid of a friend, to 
supply him with .£30 annually. His brother Neville 
promised twenty ; and his mother, it was hoped, would 
be able to allow fifteen or twenty more. With this, it 
was thought, he could go through college. If this 
prospect had not been opened to him, he would pro- 
bably have turned his thoughts towards the orthodox 
dissenters. 

On his return to l^ottingham, the Eev. Eobinson, 

of Leicester, and some other friends, advised him to 
apply to the Elland Society for assistance, conceiving 
that it would be less oppressive to his feelings to be de- 
pendent on a Society instituted for the express purpose 
of training up such young men as himself (that is, such 
in circumstances and opinions) for the ministry, than on 
the bounty of an individual. In consequence of this 
advice, he went to Elland at the next meeting of the 



56 LIFE OF 

Society, a stranger there, and witliont one friend among 
tlie members. He was examined, for several hours, by 
about five-and-twenty clergymen, as to his religious 
views and sentiments, his theological knowledge, and 
his classical attainments. In the course of the inquiry, 
it appeared that he had published a volume of poems : 
their questions now began to be very unpleasantly in- 
quisitive concerning the nature of these poems, and he 
was assailed by queries from all quarters. It was well 
for Henry that they did not think of referring to the 
Monthly Review for authority. My letter to him hap- 
pened to be in his pocket ; he luckily recollected this, 
and produced it as a testimony in his favor. They did 
me the honor to say that it was quite sufficient, and 
pursued this part of their inquiry no farther. Before he 
left Elland, he was given to understand that they were 
well satisfied with his theological knowledge ; that they 
thought his classical proficiency prodigious for his age, 
and that they had placed him on their books. He re- 
turned little pleased with his journey. His friends had 
been mistaken ; the bounty of an individual calls forth 
a sense of kindness, as well as of dependence : that of a 
Society has the virtue of charity perhaps, but it wants 
the grace. He now wrote to Mr. Simeon, stating what 
he had done, and that the beneficence of his unknown 
friends was no longer necessary; but that gentleman 
obliged him to decline the assistance of the Society, 
which he very willingly did. 

This being finally arranged, he quitted his employers 






HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 57 

in October, 1804. How miicli he liad conducted himself 
to their satisfaction, will appear by this testimony of 
Mr. Enfield, to his diligence and uniform worth. *'I 
have great pleasure," says this gentleman, ''in paying 
the tribute to his memory, of expressing the knowledge 
which was afforded me, during the period of his con- 
nection with Mr. Coldham and myself, of his diligent 
application, his ardor for study, and his virtuous and 
amiable disposition. He very soon discovered an un- 
usual aptness in comprehending the routine of business, 
and great ability and rapidity in the execution of every- 
thing which was intrusted to him. His diligence and 
punctual attention were unremitted, and his services 
became extremely valuable a considerable time before 
he left us. He seemed to me to have no relish for the 
ordinary pleasures and dissipations of young men ; his 
mind was perpetually employed, either in the business 
of his profession, or in private study. With his fondness 
for literature, we were well acquainted, but had no reason 
to offer any check to it, for he never permitted the in- 
dulgence of his literary pursuits to interfere with the 
engagements of business. The difficulty of hearing, 
under which he labored, was distressing to him in the 
practice of his profession, and was, I think, an induce- 
ment, in co-operation with his other inclinations, for his 
resolving to relinquish the law. I can, with truth, 
ss^rt, that his determination was matter of serious 
gret to my partner and myself." 
Mr. Simeon had advised him to degrade for a year. 



58 



LIFE OF 



and place himself, during that time, under some scholar. 

He went accordingly to the Eev. Grainger, of 

Winteringham, in Lincolnshire, and there, notwith- 
standing all the entreaties of his friends, pursuing the 
same unrelenting course of study, a second illness was 
the consequence. When he was recovering, he was pre- 
vailed upon to relax, to ride on horseback, and to drink 
wine ; these latter remedies he could not long afford, 
and he would not allow himself time for relaxation 
when he did not feel its immediate necessity. He fre- 
quently, at this time, studied fourteen hours a day : the 
progress which he made in twelve months was indeed 
astonishing. When he went to Cambridge, he was im- 
mediately as much distinguished for his classical know- 
ledge as his genius ; but the seeds of death were in him, 
and the place to which he had so long looked on with 
hope, served unhappily as a hot-house to ripen them.* 

During his first term, one of the University Scholar- 
ships became vacant, and Henry, young as he was in 
College, and almost self-taught, was advised, by those 
who were best able to estimate his chance of success, to 

* Daring his residence in my family, says Mr. Grainger, his conduct was 
highly becoming, and suitable to a Christian profession. He was mild and 
inoffensive, modest, unassuming, and affectionate. He attended, with great 
cheerfulness, a Sunday-school which I was endeavoring to establish in the 
village, and was at considerable pains in the instruction of the children; and 
I have repeatedly observed, that he was most pleased and most edified, with 
such of my sermons and addresses to my people, as were most close, pial^t^ 
and familiar. When we parted, we parted with mutual regret; and by us 
his name will long be remembered with affection and delight. 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 59 

offer himself as a competitor for it. He passed the 
whole term in preparing himself for this, reading for 
College subjects in bed, in his walks, or as he says, 
where, when, and how he could, never having a moment 
to spare, and often going to his tutor without having 
read at all. His strength sunk under this, and though 
he had declared himself a candidate, he was compelled 
to decline ; but this was not the only misfortune. The 
general College examination came on ; he was utterly 
unprepared to meet it, and believed that a failure here 
would have ruined his prospects for ever. He had only 
about a fortnight to read what other men had been the 
whole term reading. Once more he exerted himself 
beyond what his shattered health could bear ; the dis- 
order returned, and he went to his tutor, Mr. Catton, 
with tears in his eyes, and told him that he could not 
go into the Hall to be examined. Mr. Catton, however, 
thought his success here of so much importance, that he 
exhorted him, with all possible earnestness, to hold out 
the six days of the examination. Strong medicines 
were given him, to enable him to support it, and he was 
pronounced the first man of his year. But life was the 
price which he was to pay for such honors as this, and 
Henry is not the first young man to whom such honors 
have proved fatal. He said to his most intimate friend, 
almost the last time he saw him, that were he to paint 
a picture of Fame, crowning a distinguished under- 
^graduate, after the Senate-house examination, he would 



60 LIFE OF 

represent her as concealing a Death's head under a 
mask of beauty. 

When this was over he went to London. London was a 
new scene of excitement, and what his mind required 
was tranquillity and rest. Before he left College, he had 
become anxious concerning his expenses, fearing that 
they exceeded his means. Mr. Catton perceived this, 
and twice called him to his rooms, to assure him of every 
necessary support, and every encouragement, and to give 
him every hope. This kindness relieved his spirits of a 
heavy weight, and on his return he relaxed a little from 
his studies, but it was only a little. I found among his 
papers the day thus planned out : — " Rise at half-past 
Rye. Devotions and walk till seven. Chapel and break- 
fast till eight. Study and lectures till one. Four and a 
half clear reading. "Walk, &c., and dinner, and Wool- 
laston, and chapel to six. Six to nine, reading— three 
hours. Mne to ten, devotions. Bed at ten." 

Among his latest writings are these resolutions : — 

" I will never be in bed after six. 

I will not drink tea out above once a week, excepting on Sundays, unless 
there appear some good reason for so doing. 

I will never pass a day without reading some portion of the Scriptures. 

I will labor diligently in my mathematical studies, because I half sus- 
pect myself of a dislike to them. 

I will walk two hours a day, upon the average of every week. 
Sit.mihi gratia addita ad hcec facie?ida" 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



61 



About tills time, judging by the handwriting, he wrote 
down the following admonitory sentences, which, as the 
paper on which they are written is folded into the shape 
of a very small book, it is probable he carried about with 
him as a manual. 

" 1. Death and judgment are near at hand. 

2. Though thy bodily part be now in health and ease, the dews of 
death will soon sit upon thy forehead. 

3. That which seems so sweet and desirable to thee now, will, if yielded 
to, become bitterness of soul to thee all thy life after. 

4. When the waters are come over thy soul, and when, in the midst of 
much bodily anguish, thou distinguishest the dim shores of Eternity be- 
fore thee, Avhat wouldst thou not give to be lighter by this one sin ? 

5. God has long withheld his arm 5 what if his forbearance be now at 
an end? Canst thou not contemplate these things with the eyes of death ? 
Art thou not a dying man, dying every day, every hour ? 

6. Is it not a fearful thing to shrink from the summons when it comes ? 
— to' turn with horror and despair from the future being? Think what 
strains of joy and tranquillity fall on the ear of the saint who is just 
swooning into the arms of his Redeemer ; what fearful shapes, and dread- 
ful images of a disturbed conscience, surround the sinner's bed, when 
the last twig which he grasped fails him, and the gulf yawns to receive 
him. 

Y. Oh, my soul, if thou art yet ignorant of the enormity of sin, turn 
thine eyes to the man who is bleeding to death on the cross ? See how 
the blood from his pierced hands trickles down his arms, and the more 
copious streams from his feet run on the accursed tree, and stain the 
grass with purple ! Behold his features, though scarcely animated with 
a few remaining sparks of life, yet how full of love, pity, and tranquillity! 
A tear is trickling down his cheek, and his lip quivers. He is praying 



62 LIFE OF 

for his murderers ! 0, my soul ! it is thy Redeemer — it is thy God ! And 
this too for Sin — for Sin ! and wilt thou ever again submit to its yoke ? 

8. Remember that the grace of the Holy Spirit of God is ready to save 
thee from transgression. It is always at hand : thou canst not sin without 
wilfully rejecting its aid. 

9. And is there real pleasure in sin ? Thou knowest there is not. But 
there is pleasure, pure and exquisite pleasure, in holiness. The Holy 
Ghost can make the paths of religion and virtue, hard as they seem, and 
thorny, ways of pleasantness and peace, where, though there be thorns, 
yet are there also roses; and where all the wounds which we suffer in the 
flesh, from the hardness of the journey, are so healed by the balm of the 
spirit, that they rather give joy than pain." 

The exercise wliicli Henry took was no relaxation ; lie 
still continued tlie liabit of studying while he walked ; 
and in this manner, while he was at Cambridge, com- 
mitted to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides. Twice 
he distinguished himself in the following year, being 
again pronounced first at the great College examination, 
and also one of the three best theme writers, between 
whom the examiners could not decide. The College 
offered him, at their expense, a private tutor in mathe- 
matics, during the long vacation ; and Mr. Catton, by 
procuring for him exhibitions to the amount of £66 per 
annum, enabled him to give up the pecuniary assistance 
which he had received from Mr. Simeon and other 
friends. This intention he had expressed in a letter, 
written twelve months before his death. " With regard 
to my college expenses (he says), I have the pleasure to 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 63 

inform you, tliat I sliall be obliged, in strict rectitude, to 
waive the offers of many of my friends. I shall not 
even need the sum Mr. Simeon mentioned, after the first 
year ; and it is not impossible that I may be able to live 
without any assistance at all. I confess I feel pleasure 
at the thought of this, not through any vain pride of in- 
dependence, but because I shall then give a more un- 
biassed testimony to the truth, than if I were supposed 
to be bound to it by any ties of obligation or gratitude. 
I shall always feel as much indebted for intended as for 
actually afforded assistance ; and though I should never 
think a sense of thankfulness an oppressive burden, yet 
I shall be happy to evince it, when in the eyes of the world 
the obligation to it has been discharged." l^ever, per- 
haps, had any young man, in so short a time, excited 
such expectations ; every University honor was thought 
to be within his reach ; he was set down as a medallist, 
and expected to take a senior wrangler's degree ; but 
these expectations were poison to him ; they goaded him 
to fresh exertions when his strength was spent. His 
situation became truly miserable : to his brother, and to 
his mother, he wrote always that he had relaxed in his 
studies, and that he was better ; always holding out to 
them his hopes and his good fortune : but to th e most 
intimate of his friends (Mr. Maddock), his letters told a 
different tale : to him he complained of dreadful palpi- 
tations — of nights of sleeplessness and horror, and of 
spirits depressed to the very depths of wretchedness, so 
that he went from one acquaintance to another, imploring 



^4 L I F E F 



society, even as a starving beggar entreats for food. 
During the course of this summer, it was expected that 
the Mastership of the Free School at ISTottingham would 
shortly become vacant. A relation of his family was at 
that time mayor of the town ; he suggested to them what 
an advantageous situation it would be for Henry, and 
offered to secure for him the necessary interest. But, 
though the salary and emoluments are estimated at from 
X400 to <£600 per annum, Henry declined the offer ; be- 
cause, had he accepted it, it would have frustrated his 
intentions with respect to the ministry. This was cer- 
tainly no common act of forbearance in one so situated 
as to fortune, especially as the hope which he had most 
at heart, was that of being enabled to assist his family, 
and in some degree requite the care and anxiety of his 
father and mother, by making them comfortable in their 
declining years. 

The indulgence shown him by his college, in providing 
him a tutor during the long vacation, was peculiarly un- 
fortunate. His only chance of life was from relaxation, 
and home is the only place where he would have relaxed 
to any purpose. Before this time he had seemed to be 
gaining strength ; it failed as the year advanced : he went 
once more to London, to recruit himself, — the worst 
place to which he could have gone ; the variety of stimu- 
lating objects there hurried and agitated him, and when 
he returned to College, he was so completely ill, that no 
power of medicine could save him. His mind was worn 
out, and it was the opinion of his medical attendants, 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 65 

that if lie liacl recovered, his intellect would have been 
affected. His brother I^eville was just at this time to 
have visited him. On his first seizure, Henry found him- 
self too ill to receive him, and wrote to say so ; he added, 
with that anxious tenderness towards the feelings of a 
most affectionate family which always appeared in his 
letters, that he thought himself recovering ; but his dis- 
order increased so rapidly, that this letter was never 
sent ; it was found in his pocket after his decease. One 
of his friends wrote to acquaint iTeville with his danger : 
he hastened down; but Henry was delirious when he 
arrived. He knew him only for a few moments ; the 
next day sunk into a state of stupor ; and on Sunday, 
October 19th, 1806, it pleased God to remove him to a 
better world, and a higher state of existence. 

The will which I had manifested to serve Henry, he 
had accepted as the deed, and had expressed himself 
upon the subject in terms which it would have humbled 
me to read, at any other time than when I was perform- 
ing the last service to his memory. On his decease, Mr. 
B. Maddock addressed a letter to me, informing me of 
the event, as one who had professed an interest in his 
friend's fortunes. I inquired, in my reply, if there was 
any intention of publishing what he might have left, 
and if I could be of any assistance in the publication ; 
this led to a correspondence with his excellent brother, 
and the whole of his papers were consigned into my 
hands, with as many of his letters as could be collected. 

5 



66 LIFE OF 

These papers (exclusive of the correspondence) filled a 
box of considerable size. Mr. Coleridge was present 
when I opened them, and was, as well as myself, equally 
affected and astonished at the proofs of industry which 
they displayed. Some of them had been written before 
his hand was formed, probably before he was thirteen. 
There were papers upon law, upon electricity, upon 
chemistry, upon the Latin and Greek language, from 
their rudiments to the higher branches of critical study, 
^ upon history, chronology, divinity, the fathers, &c. 
N^othing seemed to have escaped him. His poems were 
numerous : among the earliest, was a sonnet addressed 
to myself, long before the little intercourse which had 
subsisted between us had taken place. Little did he 
think, when it was written, on what occasion it would 
fall into my hands. He had begun three tragedies when 
very young: one was upon Boadicea, another upon Inez 
de Castro : the third was a fictitious subject. He had 
planned also a History of ISTottingham. There was a 
letter upon the famous Nottingham election, which 
seemed to have been intended either for the newspapers 
or for a separate pamphlet. It was written to confute 
the absurd stories of the Tree of Liberty, and the God- 
dess of Reason ; with the most minute knowledge of the 
circumstances, and a not improper feeling of indignation 
against so infamous a calumny ; and this came with 
more weight from him, as his party inclinations seemed 
to have leaned towards the side which he was o]3posing. 
This was his only finished composition in prose. Much 



HENRY KIRKE AVIIITE. 67 

of his time, latterly, had been devoted to the study of 
Greek prosody : he had begun several poems in Greek, 
and a translation of the Samson Agonistes. I have in- 
spected all the existing manuscripts of Chatterton, and 
they excited less wonder than these. 

It is not possible to conceive a human being more 
amiable in all the relations of life. He was the confi- 
dential friend and adviser of every member of his 
family ; this he instinctively became ; and the thorouo-h 
good sense of his advice is not less remarkable than the 
afifection mth which it is always communicated. To his 
mother, he is as earnest in beseeching her to be careful 
of her health, as he is in laboring to convince her that 
his own complaints were abating; his letters to her are 
always of hopes, of consolation, and of love. To :N'eville 
he writes with the most brotherly intimacy, still, how- 
ever, in that occasional tone of advice which it was his 
nature to assume, not from any arrogance of superiority, 
but from earnestness of pure affection. To his younger 
brother he addresses himself like the tenderest and 
wisest parent ; and to two sisters, then too young for 
any other communication, he writes to direct their 
studies, to inquire into their progress, to encourage, and 
to improve them. Such letters as these are not for the 
public ; but they to whom they are addressed will lay 
them to their hearts like relics, and will find in them a 
saving virtue, more than ever relics possessed. 

With regard to his poems, the criterion for selection 
was not so plain ; undoubtedly many have been chosen 



68 



LIFE OF 



wliicli he liimself would not have published, and some 
few which, had he lived to have taken that rank among 
English poets which would assuredly have been within 
his reach, I also should then have rejected among his 
posthumous papers. I have, however, to the best of my 
judgment, selected none which does not either mark the 
state of his mind, or its progress, or discover evident 
proofs of what he would have been, if it had not been 
the will of Heaven to remove him so soon. The reader 
who feels any admiration for Henry will take some in- 
terest in all these remains, because they are his ; he who 
shall feel none must have a blind heart, and therefore a 
blind understanding. Such poems are to be considered 
as making up his history. But the greater number are 
of such beauty, that Chatterton is the only youthful poet 
whom he does not leave far behind him. 

While he was under Mr. Grainger, he wrote very 
little ; and when he went to Cambridge, he was advised 
to stifle his poetical fire, for severer and more important 
studies ; to lay a billet on the embers until he had taken 
his degree, and then he might fan it into a flame again. 
This advice he followed so scrupulously, that a few frag- 
ments, written chiefly upon the back of his mathematical 
papers, are all Avhich he produced at the University. 
The greater part, therefore, of these poems, indeed 
nearly the whole of them, were written before he was 
nineteen. Wise as the advice may have been which had 
been given him, it is now to be regretted that he ad- 
hered to it, his latter fragments bearing all those marks 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 69 

of improvement which, were to he expected from a mind 
so rapidly and continually progressive. Frequently he 
expresses a fear that early death would roh him of his 
fame ; yet, short as his life was, it has heen long enough 
for him to leave works worthy of rememhrance. The 
very circumstance of his early death gives a new interest 
to his memory, and thereby new force to his example. 
Just at that age when the painter would have wished to 
-^x his likeness, and the lover of poetry would delight 
to contemplate him, in the fair morning of his virtues, 
the full spring blossom of his hopes, — -just at that age 
hath death set the seal of eternity upon him, and the 
beautiful hath been made permanent. To the young 
poets who come after him, Henry will be what Chatter- 
ton was to him ; and they will find in him an example 
of hopes, with regard to worldly fortune, as humble, and 
as exalted in all better things, as are enjoined equally 
by wisdom and religion, by the experience of man, and 
the word of God. And this example will be as en- 
couraging as it is excellent. It has been too much the 
custom to complain that genius is neglected, and to 
blame the public when the public is not in fault. They 
who are thus lamented as the victims of genius, have 
been, in almost every instance, the victims of their own 
vices ; while genius has been made, like charity, to 
cover a multitude of sins, and to excuse that which in 
reality it aggravates. In this age, and in this countiy, 
whoever deserves encouragement, is, sooner or later, 
sure to receive it. Of this, Henry's history is an ho- 



70 LIFE OF 

norable proof. The particular patronage wliich lie ac- 
cepted, was given as mucli to liis piety and religious 
opinions, as to his genius ; but assistance was offered 
him from other quarters. Mr. P. Thomson (of Boston, 
Lincolnshire), merely upon perusing his little volume, 
wrote to know how he could serve him ; and there were 
many friends of literature who were ready to have 
afforded him any support which he needed, if he had 
not been thus provided. In the University, he received 
every encouragement which he merited, and from Mr. 
Simeon, and his tutor, Mr. Catton, the most fatherly 
kindness. 

^'I can venture," says a lady of Cambridge, in a letter 
to his brother, '' I can venture to say, with certainty, 
there was no member of the University, however high 
his rank or talents, who would not have been happy to 
have availed themselves of the opportunity of being 
acquainted with Mr. Henry Kirke White. I mention 
this to introduce a wish, which has been expressed to 
me so often by the senior members of the University, 
that I dare not decline the task they have imposed upon 
me ; it is their hope that Mr. Southey will do as much 
justice to Mr. Henry White's limited wishes, to his un- 
assuming pretensions, and to his rational and fervent 
piety, as to his various acquirements, his polished taste, 
his poetical fancy, his undeviating principles, and the 
excellence of his moral character ; and that he will 
suffer it to be understood, that these inestimable qua- 
lities had not been unobserved, nor would they have 



HEXRYKIRKE WHITE. 71 

remained unacknowledged. It was the general observa- 
tion, that he possessed genius without its eccentricities." 
Of his fervent piety, his letters, his prayers, and his 
hymns, will afford ample and interesting proofs. I 
must be permitted to say, that my own views of the re- 
ligion of Jesus Christ differ essentially from the system 
of belief which he had adopted ; but, having said this, 
it is, indeed, my anxious wish to do full justice to piety 
so fervent. It was in him a living and quickening prin- 
ciple of goodness, which sanctified all his hopes, and all 
his afiections ; which made him keep watch over his 
own heart, and enabled him to correct the few symptoms 
which it ever displayed of human imperfection. 

His temper had been irritable in his younger days, 
but this he had long since effectually overcome ; the 
marks of youthful confidence, which appear in his 
earliest letters, had also disappeared ; and it was impos- 
sible for man to be more tenderly patient of the faults 
of others, more uniformly meek, or more unaffectedly 
humble. He seldom discovered any sportiveness of 
imagination, though he would very ably and pleasantly 
rally any one of his friends for any little peculiarity; 
his conversation was always sober, and to the purpose. 
That which is most remarkable in him, is his uni- 
form good sense, a faculty perhaps less common than 
genius. There never existed a more dutiful son, a 
more affectionate brother, a warmer friend, nor a de- 
vouter Christian. Of his powers of mind it is super- 
fluous to speak; they were acknowledged wherever 



72 LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

tliey were known. It would be idle too, to say what 
hopes were entertained of him, and what he might have 
accomplished in literature. This volume contains what 
he has left, — immature buds, and blossoms shaken from 
the tree, and green fruit ; yet will they evince what the 
harvest would have been, and secure for him that re- 
membrance upon earth for which he toiled. 

'• Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, 
Thou happy soul ! and can it be 
That these * * * 
Are all that must rem,ain of thee !" 

WaRDSWORTH. 



POEMS 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



PREPACE. 



The following attempts in verse are laid before the 
public with extreme diffidence. The author is very con- 
scious that the juvenile effi^rts of a youth, who has not 
received the polish of academical discipline, and who 
has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for the 
prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must necessarily be 
defective in the accuracy and finished elegance which 
mark the works of the man who has passed his life in 
the retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with 
images, and at the same time attaining the power of dis- 
posing those images to the best advantage. 

The unpremeditated effusions of a boy, from his thir- 
teenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary 
information, but in the more active business of life, must 
not be expected to exhibit any considerable portion of 
the correctness of a Yirgil, or the vigorous compression 
of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, frequently known 
to bestow much labor on their amusements : and these 
poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a 



"6 PREFACE. 

leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies 
of a severer nature. 

/7a? TO oixtioc; epyov aya-aw. " Every One loves Ms own 
work," says the Stagyrite ; but it was no overweening 
afiection of tliis kind wliicli induced tliis publication. 
Had the author relied on his own judgment only, these 
poems would not, in all probability, ever have seen the 
light. 

Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives 
for this publication ? He answers — simply these : the 
facilitation through its means of those studies which, 
from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects 
of his ambition ; and the increase of the capacity to pur- 
sue those inclinations which may one day place him in 
an honorable station in the scale of society. 

The principal poem in this little collection (Clifton 
Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers, and harmonious 
coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded 
as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that charming 
retreat, accompanied with such reflections as the scene 
naturally suggested. It was written twelve months ago, 
when the author was in his sixteenth year. The Mis- 
cellanies are some of them the productions of a very 
early age. Of the Odes, that " To an early Primrose," 
was written at thirteen — the others are of a later date. 
The sonnets are chiefly irregular; they have, perhaps, 
no other claim to that specific denomination than that 
they consist only of fourteen lines. 

Such are the poems towards which I entreat the lenity 



PREFACE. 77 



of the public. The critic will doubtless find in them much 
to condemn, he may likewise, possibly, discover some- 
thing to commend. Let him scan my faults with an in- 
dulgent eye, and in the work of that correction which I 
invite, let him remember, he is holding the iron Mace of 
Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of 
seventeen, and remembering that, may he forbear from 
crushing by too much rigor, the painted butterfly, whose 
transient colors may otherwise be capable of affording a 
moment's innocent amusement. 

H. K. White. 

Nottingham. 



POEMS. 



TO MY LYEE. 

AN ODE. 
I. 

Thou simple Lyre ! — Thy music wild 

Has served to charm the weary hour, 
And many a lonely night has 'guiled, 
When even pain has owned and smiled, 
Its fascinating power. 

II. 

Yet, oh, my Lyre ! the busy crowd 
Will little heed thy simple tones : 
Them, mightier minstrels harping loud 
Engross, — and thou, and I, must shroud 
Where dark oblivion 'thrones. 

III. 

'No hand, thy diapason o'er. 

Well skilled, I throw with sweep sublime ; 
For me, no academic lore 
Has taught the solemn strain to pour, 

Or build the polished rhyme. 



80 POEMSOF 

IV. 

Yet tlion to sylvan tliemes canst soar ; 

Thou know'st to cliarm tlie tvoodland train : 
The rustic swains believe thy power 
Can hush the Tvild winds when they roar, 

And still the billowy main. 

V. 

These honors, Lyre, we yet may keep, 
I, still unknown, may live with thee. 
And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep 
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep. 
Beneath the alder tree. 

VI. 

This little dirge will please me more. 

Than the full requiem's swelling peal ; 
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh 
For me, that from some kindred eye 
The trickling tear should steal. 

VII. 

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, 

Perhaps from me debarred ; 
And dear to me the classic zone. 
Which snatched from learning's labored throne, 

Adorns the accepted bard. 

VIII. 

And ! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 
Where Cam, or Isis, winds along. 

Perchance, inspired with ardor chaste, 

I yet might call the ear of taste 
To listen to my song. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
IX. 

Oil ! then, my little friend, tliy style 

I'd change to happier lays, 
Oh ! then, the cloistered glooms should smile, 
And through the long, the fretted aisle 

Should swell the note of praise. 



81 



CLIFTOF GROVE. 

A SKETCH IN VERSE. 

Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, 
And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 
'No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke 
Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke ; 
No more, hoarse clamoring o'er the uplifted head. 
The crows assembling, seek their wind-rocked bed. 
Stilled is the village hum — the woodland sounds 
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds. 
And general silence reigns, save when below, 
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow ; 
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, 
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate ; 
Or, when the sheep bell, in the distant vale, 
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile. 
Released from day and its attendant toil. 
And draws his household round their evening fire, 
And tells the oft-told tales that never tire : 
Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, 
And manufacture taints the ambient skies, 

6 



82 POEMS OF 

The pale mechanic leaves the laboring loom, 

The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, 

And rushes out, impatient to begin 

The stated course of customary sin : 

^ow, now, my solitar}^ way I bend 

Where solenm groves in awful state impend, 

And cliiFs, that boldly rise above the plain, 

Bespeak, blest Clifton ! thy sublime domain. 

Here, lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 

I come to pass the meditative hour ; 

To bid awhile the strife of passion cease. 

And woo the calms of solitude and peace. 

And oh ! thou sacred power, who rear'st on high 

Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh ! 

Genius of woodland shades ! whose mild control 

Steals with resistless witchery to the soul. 

Come with thy wonted ardor and inspire 

My glowing bosom with thy hallowed fire. 

And thou, too, Fancy ! from thy starry sphere, 

Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, 

Do thou descend, and bless my ravished sight. 

Veiled in soft visions of serene delight. 

At thy command the gale that passes by 

Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. 

Thou wav'st thy wand, and lo ! what forms appear ! 

On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ! 

The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, 

And hosts of Sylphids on the moonbeam sail. 

This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight. 
Where meeting trees create eternal night ; 
Save, when from yonder stream, the sunny ray, 
Eefiected gives a dubious gleam of day; 
Eecalls endearing to my .altered mind, 
Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined 



HENRY K HIKE WHITE. 83 

I watched the lapwing to her clamorous brood ; 

Or hired the robin to its scattered food, 

Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, 

And at each gay response delighted, smiled. 

How oft, when chiklhood threw its golden ray 

Of gay romance o'er every happy day. 

Here would I run, a visionary boy. 

When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, 

And fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form 

Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; 

And heard, while awe congealed my inmost soul, 

His voice terrific in the thunders roll. 

With secret joy, I viewed with vivid glare. 
The volleyed lightnings cleave the sullen air; 
And, as the warring winds around reviled. 
With awful pleasure big,— I heard and smiled. 
Beloved remembrance !— Memory which endears 
This silent spot to my advancing years. 
Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest. 
In shades like these to live, is to be blest. 
While happiness evades the busy crowd. 
In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 
And thou, too. Inspiration, whose wild flame 
Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame, 
Thou here dost love to sit, with upturned eye, 
And listen to the stream that murmurs by. 
The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight, 
The mellow music of the listening night. 
Congenial calms more welcome to my breast 
Than maddening joy in dazzhng lustre drest. 
To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise, 
That ye may bless my unambitious days. 
Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife 
May trace with me the lowly vale of life, 



^4 POEMSOF 

And when lier banner Death shall o'er me wave 

May keep your peaceful vigils on niy grave. 

!N'ow, as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 

A livelier light upon my vision flows. 

No more above, the embracing branches meet ; 

No more the river gurgles at my feet, 

But seen deep down the cliff's impending side 

Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. 

Dim is my upland path, — across the Green 

Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 

The chequered glooms, the moon her chaste ray sheds, 

Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful heads, 

And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees. 

Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. 

Say, why does man, while to his opening sight, 
Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, 
And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, 
And gives to him alone, his bliss to know, 
Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms ? 
Why clasp the siren Pleasure to his arms ? 
And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, 
Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? 
Could he who thus to vile enjoyments clings. 
Know what calm joy from purer sources springs. 
Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, 
The harmless pleasures of a harmless life. 
No more his soul would pant for joys impure, 
The deadly chalice would no more allure. 
But the sweet portion he was wont to sip. 
Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 

Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms. 
Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms : 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 8 

Thine, are the sweets which never, never sate, 
Thine, still remain, through all the storms of fate. 
Though not for me, 'twas Heaven's divine command 
To roll in acres of paternal land, 
Yet still, my lot is blest, while I enjoy 
Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. 

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss 

Has ever shunned him when he thought to kiss. 

Who, still in abject poverty, or pain. 

Can count with pleasure what small joys remain : 

Though were his sight conveyed from zone to zone. 

He would not find one spot of ground his own, 

Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee, 

These bounding prospects all were made for me : 

For me, yon waving fields their burden bear, 

For me, yon laborer guides the shining share, 

Wliile happy I, in idle ease recline, 

And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 

This is the charm, by sages often told, 

Converting all it touches into gold. 

Content can soothe, where'er by fortune placed. 

Can rear a garden in the desert waste. 

How lovely, from this hill's superior height. 

Spreads the wide view before my straining sight ! 

O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground. 

E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound 

My ken is borne, while o'er my head serene 

The silver moon illumes the misty scene, 

N'ow shining clear, now darkening in the glade, 

In all the soft varieties of shade. 

Behind me, lo ! the peaceful hamlet lies: 
The drowsy god has sealed the cotter's eyes. 



86 POEMSOF 

'No more, where late tlie social fagot blazed, 

The vacant peal resounds, by little raised ; 

But, locked in silence, o'er Arion's* star 

The slumbering night rolls on her velvet car ; 

The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the glade, 

The solemn hour, for walking spectres made ; 

The simple plough-boy, wakening with the sound, 

Listen's aghast, and turns him startled round. 

Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes. 

Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. 

ISTow ceased the long, the monitory toll, 

Eeturning silence stagnates in the soul ; 

Save when, disturbed by dreams, with wild affright, 

The deep-mouthed mastiff bays the troubled night ; 

Or where the village ale-house crowns the vale. 

The creaking sign-post whistles to the gale. 

A little onward let me bend my way, 

"Where the mossed seat invites the traveller's stay. 

That spot, oh ! yet it is the very same ; 

That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name ; 

There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom, 

There yet the violet sheds its first perfume. 

And in the branch that rears above the rest 

The robin unmolested builds its nest. 

'Twas here, when hope presiding o'er my breast, 

In vivid colors every prospect drest ; 

'Twas here, rechning, I indulged her dreams, 

And lost the hour in visionary schemes. 

Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, 

Why, bland deceiver ! not renew the cheat ? 

Say, can a few short years this change achieve ? 

That thy illusions can no more deceive ! 

* The Constellation Delpliinus. For authority for this appellation, vide 
Ovia"s Fasti. B. xi. 113. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 8^ 

Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, 

And tliou, too, gay Seducer ! art thou fled ? 

Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, 

Yet thou couldst guile misfortune of her tear, 

And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way, 

Could throw a gleam of transitory day. 

How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems ; 

How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams ; . 

The dire mistake too soon is brought to light. 

And all is buried in redoubled night. 

Yet some can rise superior to the pain. 

And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain : 

While others, dead to feeling, "can survey 

Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away : 

But yet a few there be, — too soon o'ercast ! 

Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, 

And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the 

gloom, 
To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. 
So, in these shades, the early primrose blows. 
Too soon deceived by suns, and melting snows : 
So falls untimely on the desert waste. 
Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. 

ISTow passed whate'er the upland heights display, 
Down the steep cliff" I wind my devious way ; 
Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat. 
The timid hare from its accustomed seat. 
And oh ! how SAveet this walk o'erhung with wood. 
That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! 
What rural objects steal upon the sight ! 
What rising views prolong the calm delight ! 
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, 
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, 



88 POEMS OF 

The woody island and the naked mead, * 

The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, 

The rural wicket, and the rural stile, 

And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 

Ahove, below, where'er I turn my eyes, 

Eocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. 

High up the cliff the varied groves ascend. 

And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 

Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, 

"What glimmering scenes salute my ravished eyes : 

Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed. 

The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head, 

And swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, 

Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 

Still, every rising sound of calm delight 

Stamps but the fearful silence of the night ; 

Save, when is heard, between each dreary rest, 

Discordant from her solitary nest, 

The owl, dull-screaming to the wandering moon ; 

I^ow riding, cloud-wrapt, near her highest noon : 

Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides, 

And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 

How oft, in this sequestered spot, when youth 

Gave to each tale the holy force of truth. 

Have I long-lingered, while the milk-maid sung 

The tragic legend, till the woodland rung ! 

That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear, 

From its sweet source can call the sacred tear. 

And (lulled to rest stern reason's harsh control) 

Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. 

These hallowed shades,— these trees that woo the wind, 

Kecall its faintest features to my mind. 

A hundred passing years, with march sublime, 

Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, 



HENRYKIRKE WHITE. ^^ 

Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 

Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, 

The beauteous Margaret ; for her each swain 

Confest in private his peculiar pain. 

In secret sighed, a victim to despair, 

^Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. 

1^0 more the shepherd on the blooming mead 

Attuned to gaiety his artless reed, 

IN'o more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck 

His favorite wether's unpolluted neck ; 

But listless, by yon babbling stream reclined. 

He mixed his sobbings with the passing wind, 

Bemoaned his hapless love, or boldly bent. 

Far from these smiling fields, a rover went, 

O'er distant lands, in search of ease to roam, 

A self-willed exile from his native home. 

Yet not to all the maid expressed disdain. 

Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. 

Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, 

The echoing vault responded to their vows, 

As here deep hidden from the glare of day, 

Enamored, oft they took their secret way. 

Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name ; 
'Twas there the blushing maid confessed her flame. 
Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, 
When evening slumbered on the w^estern sky. 
That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare, 
Each bears mementoes of the fated pair. 

One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze 
With the fallen honors of the mourning trees, 
The maiden waited at the accustomed bower. 
And waited long beyond the appointed hour. 



90 POEMSOF 

Yet Bateman came not ; — o'er the woodland drear, 

Howling portentous, did tlie winds career ; 

And bleak and dismal on tlie leafless woods, 

The fitful rains rushed down in sudden floods. 

The night was dark ; as, now-and-then, the gale 

Paused for a moment, — Margaret listened, pale ; 

But through the covert to her anxious ear, 

'No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. 

Strange fears now filled her breast, — she knew not Avhy ; 

She sighed, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. 

She hears a noise, — 'tis he — he comes at last. 

Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past ; 

But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, 

Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound : 

'Tis Bateman's self, — he springs into her arms, 

'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. 

" Yet why this silence ? — I have waited long. 

And the cold storm has yelled the trees among. 

And now thou'rt here my fears are fled — yet speak, 

Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek ? 

Say, what is wrong ?" — l^ow, through a parting cloud, 

The pale moon peered from her tempestuous shroud, 

And Bateman's face was seen ;— 'twas deadly white, 

And sorrow seemed to sicken in his sight. 

^' Oh, speak, my love !" again the maid conjured; 

"Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured ?" 

He raised his head, and thrice essayed to tell. 

Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell ; 

"When thus at last reluctantly he broke 

His boding silence, and the maid bespoke : — 

" Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance, 

I on these fields must cast my parting glance ; 

For three long years, by cruel fate's command, . 

I go to languish in a foreign land. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 91 

Oil, Margaret ! omens dire liave met my view, 
Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true ? 
Should honors tempt thee, and should riches fee, 
Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me. 
And on the silken couch of wealth reclined. 
Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?" 

'' Oh ! why," replies the maid, ''my faith thus prove ? — 
Canst thou ! ah, canst thou, then, suspect my love ? 
Hear me, just God ! if, from my traitorous heart. 
My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, 
If, when he hail again his native shore. 
He finds his Margaret true to him no more. 
May fiends of hell, and every power of dread. 
Conjoined, then drag me from my perjured bed. 
And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps. 
To find deserved death in yonder deeps !"* 

Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew 

A golden ring, and broke it quick in two ; 

One half she in her lovely bosom hides, 

The other, trembling to her love confides. 

" This bind the vow," she said, '' this mystic charm 

1^0 future recantation can disarm. 

The rite vindictive does the fates involve, 

No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve." 

She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, 
The river moaned, the wild gale whistled by. 
And once again the lady of the night. 
Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. 
Trembling she viewed these portents with dismay : 
But gently Bateman kissed her fears away : 

* Tliis part of the Trent is commonly called " The Clifton Deeps." 



92 



POEMS OF 



Yet still he felt concealed a secret smart, 
Still melancholy bodings filled his heart. 

When to the distant land the youth was sped, 

A lonely life the moody maiden led. 

Still would she trace each dear, each well-known walk. 

Still by the moonlight to her love would talk 

And fancy as she paced among the trees, 

She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. 

Thus two years glided on, in silent grief; 
The third, her bosom owned the kind relief; 
Absence had cooled her love, — the impoverished flame 
Was dwindling fast, when lo ! the tempter came ; 
He offered wealth, and all the joys of life. 
And the weak maid became another'^ wife ! 

Six guilty months had marked the false one's crime. 

When Bateman hailed once more his native clime. 

Sure of her constancy, elate he came, 

The lovely partner of his soul to claim. 

Light was his heart, as up the well-known way 

He bent his steps — and all his thoughts were gay. 

Oh ! who can paint his agonizing throes. 

When on his ear the fatal news arose. 

Chilled with amazement, — senseless with the blow, 

He stood a marble monument of woe. 

Till called to all the horrors of despair. 

He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair; 

Then rushed impetuous from the dreadful spot. 

And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot), 

Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame. 

And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 

'Twas night — ^he sought the river's lonely shore, 

And traced again their former wanderings o'er. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

^ow on the bank in silent grief he stood, 
And gazed intently on the stealing flood, 
Death in his mien and madness in his eye, 
He watched the waters as they murmured by ; 
Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave — 
Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 
Yet still he stood irresolutely bent. 
Religion sternly stayed his rash intent. 
He knelt. — Cool played upon his cheek the wind. 
And fanned the fever of his maddening mind. 
The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, 
The paly moonbeam on its surface slept. 
And all was peace : — he felt the general calm 
O'er his racked bosom shed a genial balm : 
When casting far behind his streaming eye. 
He saw the Grove, — in fancy saw her lie. 
His Margaret, lulled in Germain's* arms to rest, 
And all the demon rose within his breast. 
Convulsive now, he clenched his trembling hand. 
Cast his dark eye once more upon the land. 
Then, at one spring, he spurned the yielding bank, 
And in the calm deceitful current sank. 

Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound. 

As in the stream he plunged, was heard around : 

Then all was still, — the wave was rough no more, 

The river swept as sweetly as before. 

The willows waved, the moonbeam shone serene, 

And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 

Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang 
Remorse's glooms and never-ceasing pang. 

* Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. 



94 P E M S F 

Full T^^ell slie knew, repentant now too late, 
She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. 
But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast. 
The oifencled God prolonged her life unblest. ' 

But fast the fleeting moments rolled away, 
And near, and nearer drew the dreaded day ; 
That day, foredoomed to give her child the light. 
And hurl its mother to the shades of night. 

The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife 
The guiltless baby struggled into life. — 
As night drew on, around her bed, a band 
Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand ; 
In holy prayer they passed the creeping time, 
Intent to expiate her awfnl crime. 

Their prayers were fruitless. As the midnight came, 

A heavy sleep oppressed each weary frame. 

In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load, 

Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. 

They slept, till in the blushing eastern sky 

The bloomy morning oped her dewy eye : 

Then wakening wide they sought the ravished bed. 

But lo ! the hapless Margaret was fled ; 

And never more the weeping train were doomed 

To view the false one, in the deeps intombed. 

The neighboring rustics told that in the night 

They heard such screams, as froze them with afiright ; 

And many an infant at its mother's breast, 

Started dismayed, from its unthinking rest. 

And even now, upon the heath forlorn. 

They show the path, down which the fair was borne, 

By the fell demons, to the yawning wave. 

Her own, and murdered lover's, mutual grave. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Sncli is the tale, so sad, to memoiy dear, 

"^Vliicli oft ill yoiitli has charmed mj listening ear, 

That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets 

In the drear silence of these dark retreats; 

And even now, with melancholy power, 

Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 

'^lid all the charms by magic ISTature given 

To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, 

With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans 

On the attendant legend of the scenes. 

This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods. 

And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods ; 

This, as the distant cataract swells around, 

Gives a romantic cadence to the sound : 

This, and the deep'ning glen, the alley green, 

The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between. 

The massy rock, the wood-encompassed leas. 

The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, 

The lengthening vista, and the present gloom. 

The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume ; 

These are thy charms, the joys which these impart 

Eind thee, blest Clifton ! close around my heart. 

Dear native Grove ! where'er my devious track. 
To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. 
Whether in Arno's polished vales I stray. 
Or where " Oswego's swamps" obstruct the day ; 
Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide. 
The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side ; 
Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse. 
Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views ; 
Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam. 
My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. 
"When splendor ofters, and when Fame incites, 
I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, 



95 



96 POEMSOF 

Eeject the boon, and wearied with the change, 
Renounce the wish which first induced to range ; 
Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes once 

more. 
Trace once again Old Trent's romantic shore, 
And tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, 
Here waste the little remnant of my days. 
But, if the Fates should this last wish deny. 
And doom me on some foreign shore to die ; 
Oh ! should it please the world's supernal King, 
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing ; 
Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, 
Lie stretched beneath the Simoom's blasting hand; 
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb. 
My sprite shall wander through this favorite gloom. 
Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove. 
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove. 
Sit, a lorn spectre, on yon well-known grave. 
And mix its moanings with the desert wave. 



GONDOLmE. 

A BALLAD. 

The night it was still, and the moon it shone 

Serenely on the sea. 
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 

They murmured pleasantly. 

When Gondoline roamed along the shore, 

A maiden full fair to the sight ; 
Though love had made bleak the rose on her cheels 

And turned it to deadly white. 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 9" 

Her tliouglits tliey were drear, and the silent tear 

It filled her faint blue eye, 
As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, 

Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth 

Of all our good king's men, 
And he was gone to the Holy Land 

To fight the Saracen. 

And many a month had passed away, 

And many a rolling year. 
But nothing the maid from Palestine 

Could of her lover hear. 

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce 

The ocean's misty face ; 
Full oft she thought her lover's bark 

She on the wave could trace. 

And every night she placed a light 

In the high rock's lonely tower, 
To guide her lover to the land, 

Should the murky tempest lower. 

But now despair had seized her breast. 

And sunken in her eye : 
^' Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 

And I in peace will die." 

She wandered o'er the lonely shore, 

The curlew screamed above, 
She heard the scream with a sickening heart. 

Much boding of her love. 



98 P E M S F 

Yet still she kept her lonely way, 
And this was all her cry : 

" Oh ! tell me hnt if Bertrancl live, 
And I in peace shall die." 

And now she came to a horrible rift 
All in the rock's hard side, 

A bleak and blasted oak o'erspreael 
The cavern yawning wide ; 

And pendant from its dismal top 
The deadly nightshade hung, 

The hemlock, and the aconite. 
Across the mouth were flung. 

And all within was dark and drear, 
And all without was calm, 

Yet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld 
By some deep-working charm. 

And, as she entered the cavern wide. 
The moonbeam gleamdd pale, 

And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, 
It clung by its slimy tail. 

Her foot it slipped, and she stood aghast, 
She trod on a bloated toad ; 

Yet still, upheld by the secret charm, 
She kept upon her road. 

And now upon her frozen ear 

Mysterious sounds arose. 
So, on the mountain's piny top. 

The blustering north wind blows. 



HEXRY KIRKE WHITE. ^9 

Then furious poals of laughter loud 

Were heard with thundering sound, 

Till the}^ died away, in soft decay, 
Low whispering o'er the ground. 

Yet still the maiden onward went, 

The charm yet onward led, 
Though each hig glaring ball of sight 

Seemed bursting from her head. 

But now a pale blue light she saw, 

It from a distance came. 
She followed, till upon her sight, 

Burst full a flood of flame. 

She stood appalled ; 3^et still the charm 

Upheld her sinking soul. 
Yet each bent knee the other smote, 

And each wild eye did roll. 

And such a sight as she saw there, 

^o mortal saw before, 
And such a sight as she saw there, 

^o mortal shall see more. 

A burning caldron stood in the midst. 
The flame was fierce and high. 

And all the cave so wide and long, 
Was plainly seen thereby. 

And round about the caldron stout 
Twelve withered witches stood : 

Their waists were bound with living snakes, 
And their hair was stifl' with blood. 



10*^ POEMS OF 

Their hands were gory, too ; and red 
And fiercely flamed their eyes ; 

And they were muttering indistinct 
Their hellish mysteries. 

And suddenly they joined their hands, 

And uttered a joyous cry, 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

And now they stopt ; and each prepared 

To tell what she had done, 
Since last the Lady of the Mght, 

Her waning course had run. 

Behind a rock stood Gondoline, 
Thick weeds her face did veil, 

And she leaned fearful forwarder. 
To hear the dreadful tale. 

The first arose : She said she'd seen 

Rare sport, since the blind cat mewed ; 

She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve. 
And a jovial storm had brewed. 

She called around the winged winds, 

And raised a devilish rout ; 
And she laughed so loud, the peals were heard 

Full fifteen leagues about. 

She said there was a little bark 

Upon the roaring wave, 
And there was a woman there who'd been 

To see her husband's grave. 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. ^^l 

And she had got a child in her arms, 

It was her onty child, 
And oft its little infant pranks 

Her heavy heart beguiled. 

And there was too in that same bark, 

A father and his son : 
The lad was sickly, and the sire. 

Was old, and woe-begone. 

And when the tempest wax^d strong. 

And the bark could no more it 'bide. 

She said, it was jovial fun to hear 
How the poor devils cried. 

The mother clasped her orphan child 

Unto her breast, and wept ; 
And, sweetly folded in her arms, 

The careless baby slept. 

And she told how, in the shape of the wind, 

As manfully it roared. 
She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, 

And threw it overboard. 

And to have seen the mother's pangs, 

'Twas a glorious sight to see ; 
The crew could scarcely hold her down 

From jumping in the sea. 

The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand. 

And it was soft and fair ; 
It must have been a lovely child. 

To have had such lovely hair. 



102 POEMS OF 

And she said, the father in his arms 

He held his sickly son, 
And his dying throes they fast arose, 

And his pains were nearly done. 

' And she throttled the yonth with her sinewy hands, 
And his face grew deadly blue ; 
And the father he tore his thin gray hair, 
And kissed the livid hne. 

And then she told, how she bored a hole, 

In the bark, and it filled away ; 
And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear. 

And some did vow, and pray. 

The man and woman they sooii were dead, 
The sailors their strength did nrge ; 

But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet. 
And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 

She threw the infant's hair in the fire. 

The red flame flamed high, 
And round about the caldron stout, 

They danced right merrily. 

The second begun : she said she had done 
The task that Queen Hecate had set her. 

And that the devil, the father of evil. 
Had never accomplished a better. 

She said there was an aged woman, 

And she had a daughter fair, 
"Whose evil habits filled her heart 

AVith misery and care. 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 103 

The daughter had a paramour, 

A wicked man was he, 
And oft the woman, him against, 

Did murmur grievously. 

And the hag had worked the daughter up 

To murder her old mother. 
That then she might seize on all her goods. 

And wanton with her lover. 

And one night, as the old woman 

Was sick and ill in bed. 
And pondering sorely on the life 

Her wicked daughter led, 

She heard her footstep on the floor, 

And she raised her pallid head. 
And she saw her daughter, with a knife. 

Approaching to her bed; 

And said, " My child, I'm very ill, 

I have not long to live ; 
[N'ow kiss my cheek, that ere I die 

Thy sins I may forgive." 

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, 
And she lifted the sharp, bright knife, 

And the mother saw her fell intent. 
And hard she beoro^ed for life. 



"&&' 



But prayers would nothing her avail. 
And she screamed loud w^ith fear ; 

But the house was lone, and the piercing screams 
Could reach no human ear. 



104 POEMS OF 

And tliougli that she was sick, and old, 
She struggled hard, and fought ; 

The murderess cut three fingers through 
Ere she could reach her throat. 

And the hag she held the fingers up, 
The skin was mangled sore. 

And they all agreed a nobler deed 
"Was never done before. 

And she threw the fingers in the fire, 
The red flame flamed high. 

And round about the caldron stout 
They danced right merrily. 

The third arose : she said she'd been 

To holy Palestine ; 
And seen more blood in one short day, 

Than they had all seen in nine. 

;N'ow Gondoline, with fearful steps. 
Drew nearer to the flame, 

For much she dreaded now to hear 
Her hapless lover's name. 

The hag related then the sports 

Of that eventful day. 
When on the well-contested field 

Full fifteen thousand lay. 

She said, that she in human gore 
Above the knees did wade, 

And that no tongue could truly tell 
The tricks she there had played. 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 105 

There was a gallant-featured youth, 

Who like a hero fouo:ht : 
He kissed a bracelet on his wrist, 

And every danger sought. 

And in a vassal's garb disguised 

Unto the knight she sues. 
And tells him she from Britain comes, 

And brings unwelcome news. 

That three days ere she had embarked, 

His love had given her hand 
Unto a wealthy Thane :— and thought 

Him dead in holy land. 

And to have seen how he did writhe 

When this her tale she told, 
It would have made a wizard's blood 

Within his heart run cold. 

Then fierce he spurred his warrior steed, 

And sought the battle's bed : 
And soon all mangled o'er with wounds 

He on the cold turf bled. 

And from his smoking corse, she tore 

His head, half clove in two, 
She ceased, and from beneath her garb. 

The bloody tro^Dhy drew. 

The eyes were starting from their socks, 

The mouth it ghastly grinned. 
And there was a gash across the brow, 

The scalp was nearly skinned. 



106 POEMS OF 

'Twas Bertrand's Head. AYitli a terrible scream, 

The maiden gave a spring, 
And from lier fearful hiding-place 

She fell into the ring. 

The lights they fled, — ^the caldron sunk, 

Deep thunders shook the dome. 
And hollow peals of laughter came 

Resounding through the gloom. 

Insensible the maiden lay 

Upon the hellish ground : 
And still mysterious sounds were heard 

At intervals around. 

She woke, — she half arose, — and wild. 

She cast a horrid glare. 
The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled. 

And all was stillness there. 

And through an awning in the rock, 

The moon it sweetly shone. 
And showed a river in the cave. 

Which dismally did moan. 

The stream was black, it sounded deep 

As it rushed the rocks between, 
It offered well, for madness fired 

The breast of Gondoline. 

She plunged in, the torrent moaned 

With its accustomed sound. 
And hollow peals of laughter loud. 

Again rebellowed round. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



107 



The maid was seen no more. — But oft 
Her ghost is known to glide, 

At midnight's silent, solemn hour, 
Along the ocean's side. 



LINES WEITTEN OjST A SURVEY OF THE 

HEAVENS, 

IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK. 

Ye many-twinkling stars, who yet do hold 

Your brilliant places in the sable vault 

Of night's dominions ! — Planets, and central orbs 

Of other systems ! — big as the burning sun. 

Which lights this nether globe, — yet to our eye, 

Small as the glow-worm's lamp ! — To you I raise 

My lowly orisons, while all bewildered. 

My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; 

Too vast, too boundless, for our narrow mind, 

"Warped with low prejudices, to infold, 

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, 

Through ye, I raise my solemn thoughts to Him ! 

The mighty founder of this wondrous maze. 

The great Creator ! Him ! who now sublime 

Wrapt in the solitary amplitude 

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 

Sits on his silent throne, and meditates. 

The angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven. 
Hymn to their golden harps his praise sublime, 
Repeating loud, '^ The Lord our God is great," 
In varied harmonies. — The glorious sounds 



108 POEMS OF 

Eoll o'er tlie air serene. — The ^olian spheres, 
Harping along their viewless boundaries, 
Catch the full note, and cry, " The Lord is great," 
Responding to the Seraphim. — O'er all, 
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge 
Of the created world, the sound is borne. 
Till the whole universe is full of Him. 

Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear. 
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile 
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, 
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 

Oh ! what is man, when at ambition's height. 
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale 
Of these stupendous worlds ! Almighty God ! 
Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works ! 
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm. 
One look of kind benevolence ? — Thou canst : 
For thou art full of universal love. 
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart 
Thy beams as well to me, as to the proud. 
The pageant insects, of a glittering hour. 

Oh ! when reflecting on these truths sublime, 

How insignificant do all the joys. 

The gauds and honors of the world appear ! 

How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful lamp 

Outwatched the slow-paced night? — Why, on the page. 

The schoolman's labored page, have I employed 

The hours devoted by the world to rest. 

And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? 

Say, can the voice of narrow fame repay 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

The loss of health? or can the hope of glory, 
Lend a new throh into my languid heart, 
Cool, even now, my feverish, aching hrow, 
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye. 
Or paint new colors on this pallid cheek ? 
Sav, foolish one — can that unbodied Fame, 
For which thou harterest health and happiness, 
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ? 
Give a new zest to bliss ? or chase the pangs 
Of everlasting punishment condign ? 
Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! 
How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God ! 
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, 
And oh ! assist me so to live on earth. 
That I may die in peace, and claim a place 
In thy high dwelling. — All but this is folly, 
The vain illusions of deceitful life. 



109 



LmES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKE:^ BY A LOVER 
AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. 

OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE. 

Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, 

And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling. 

The big tear in his eye. — Mary, awake. 

From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight 

On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low. 

Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale. 

Thy whispered tale, of comfort, and of love, 

To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul. 

And cheer his breaking heart. — Come, as thou didst. 

When o'er the barren moors the night- wind howled. 

And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne 



110 POEMS OF 

Of tlie startled night. — Oh ! then, as lone reclming, 
I listened sadly to the dismal storm, 
Thou, on the lambent lightnings wild careering, 
Didst strike my moody eye ; dead pale thou wert, 
Yet passing lovely. — Thou didst smile upon me, 
And oh ! thy voice it rose so musical, 
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm. 
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave. 
And the stern demon of the tempest, charmed, 
Sunk on his rocking throne, to still repose. 
Locked in the arms of silence. 

Spirit of her, 
My only love ! — Oh ! now again arise. 
And let once more thine aery accents fall 
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, 
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence 
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling. 
On the still air, the distant waterfall 
Mingles its melody; — and high, above. 
The pensive empress of the solemn night. 
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds. 
Shows her chaste face, in the meridian sky. 
ISTo wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll^ 
Dare now assemble at their mystic revels. 
It is a night, when, from their primrose beds 
The gentle ghosts of injured innocents 
Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze, 
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch. 
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. 
The spirit of my love might now awake, 
And hold its 'customed converse. 

Mary, lo ! 
Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, 
And calls upon thy name. — The breeze that blows 



HENRY KIRK WHITE. HI 

On his wan cheek, will soon sweep over him, 

In solemn music, a funereal dirge, 

Wild and most sorrowful. — His cheek is pale, 

The worm that preyed upon thy youthful bloom, 

It cankered green on his. — ^N'ow lost he stands. 

The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew 

Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen 

Of speedy dissolution. — Mary, soon 

Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine. 

And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. 



MY STUDY. 

A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE. 

You bid me, 'Ned, describe the place 
Where I, one of the rhyming race, 
Pursue my studies con amove, 
And w^anton with the muse in glory. 

Well, figure to your senses straight, 

Upon the house's topmost height, 

A closet, just six feet by four. 

With whitewashed walls and plaster floor, 

So noble large, 'tis scarcely able 

To admit a single chair and table : 

And (lest the muse should die with cold) 

A smoky grate my fire to hold : 

So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose 

To melt the ice-drop on one's nose ; 

And yet so big, it covers o'er 

Full half the spacious room and more. 



112 POEMS OF 

A window vainly stuiFed about, 
To keep November's breezes out, 
So crazy, that the panes proclaim. 
That they soon mean to leave the frame. 

My furniture, I sure may crack — 

A broken chair without a back ; 

A table, wanting just two legs, 

One end sustained by wooden pegs ; 

A desk — of that I am not fervent. 

The work of, sir, your humble servant, 

(Who, though I say 't, am no such fumbler ;) 

A glass decanter and a tumbler. 

From which, my night-parched throat I lave. 

Luxurious, with the limpid wave. 

A chest of drawers, in antique sections, 

And sawed by me, in all directions ; 

So small, sir, that whoever views 'em, 

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. 

To these, if you will add a store 

Of oddities upon the floor, 

A pair of globes, electric balls. 

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, 

And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, 

Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves ; 

I think, dear !Ned, you curious dog, 

You'll have my earthly catalogue. 

But stay, — I nearly had left out 

My bellows destitute of snout ; 

And on the walls, — Good heavens ! why there 

I've such a load of precious ware, 

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals. 

And organ works, and broken pedals. 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 113 

(For I was once a building music, 

Thougli soon of that employ I grew sick), 

And skeletons of law^s which shoot 

All out of one primordial root ; 

That you, at such a sight, would swear 

Confusion's self had settled there. 

There stands, just by a broken sphere, 

A Cicero without an ear, 

A neck, on which by logic good 

I know for sure a head once stood ; 

But who it w^as the able master, 

Had moulded in the mimic plaster. 

Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn, 

I never yet could justly learn : 

But knowing well that any head 

Is made to answer for the dead, 

(And sculptors first their faces frame. 

And after pitch upon a name, 

I^or think it aught of a misnomer 

To christen Chaucer's busto. Homer, 

Because they both have beards, which you know 

Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno), 

For some great man, I could not tell 

But l!^ECK might answer just as well, 

So perched it up, all in a row 

With Chatham and with Cicero. 

Then all around in just degree, 
A range of portraits you may see. 
Of mighty men, and eke of women 
Who are no whit inferior to men. 

With these fair dames, and heroes round, 
I call my garret classic ground. 

8 



114 POEMS OF 

For tliongli confined, 'twill well contain 

The ideal flights of Madam Brain. 

1^0 dungeon's walls, no cell confined, 

Can cramp the energies of mind ! 

Thus, though my heart may seem so small, 

I've friends and 'twill contain them all ; 

And should it e'er beome so cold 

That these it will no longer hold, 

'No more may heaven her blessings give, 

I shall not then be fit to live. 



TO A^ EARLY PEIMEOSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 

Was nursed in whirling storms 

And cradled in the winds. 

Thee, when young spring first questioned winter's sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. 

Unnoticed and alone. 

Thy tender elegance. 

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 

Of life, she rears her head 

Obscure and unobserved ; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 



nENRY KIR KE WHITE. US 

SOKN^ETS. 

SOXNET I. 

TO THE RIVER TRENT. — WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

Once more, Trent ! along thy pebbly marge 

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale. 
From the close sick-room newly let at large, 
Woos to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. 
Oh ! to his ear how musical the tale 

^Yhich fills with joy the throstle's little throat ! 
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail. 

How wildly novel on his senses float ! 
It was on this, that many a sleepless night, 

As, lone, he watched the taper's sickly gleam, 
And at his casement heard, with wild aftright, 

The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, 
On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, 
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir. 



SONNET II. 

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild. 

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days ; 
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, 

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. 
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, 

List to the mountain torrent's distant noise, 
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, 

I shall not want the world's delusive joys ; 
But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre. 

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; 



116 POEMS OF 

And when, witli time, shall wane the vital fire, 

I'll raise nij pillow on the desert shore. 
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave 
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. 



SONNET III.* 

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY. 

Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe, 

And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young, 
Oh may thy bosom never, never know 

The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. 
I had a mother once — a brother too — 

(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) 
I had a lover once, — and kind, and true. 

But mother, brother, lover, all are fled ! 
Yet, whence the tear, which dims thy lovely eye ? 

Oh 1 gentle lady — not for me thus weep, 
The green sod soon upon my breast will lie. 

And soft and sound, will be my peaceful sleep. 
Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom — 

My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. 



SONNET IV. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE UNHAPPY POET DERMODY, IN A STORM, 
WHILE ON BOARD A SHIP IN HIS MAJESTY'S SERVICE. 

Lo ! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds 
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind 

* This quatorzain had its rise from an elegant sonnet, " occasioned by- 
seeing a young female lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the 
" Monthly Mirror." 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 117 

Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, 
"While the pale pilot o'er the helm reclined, 

Lists to the changeful storm : and as he plies 
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad, 
Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad, 

And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes ; 

I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn, 

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, 
l^ought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, 

For not for me shall wife, or children mourn. 

And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell. 

Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. 



SONNET V. 



THE WINTER TRAVELLER. 



God help thee. Traveller, on thy journey far ; 
The wind is bitter keen, — the snow o'erlays 
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways. 

And darkness will involve thee. — 'No kind star 

To-night will guide thee. Traveller, — and the war 
Of winds and elements on thy head will break, 
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek, 

Of spirits howling on their stormy car, 

Will often ring appalling — I portend 

A dismal night — and on my wakeful bed 
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee, will fill my head, 

And him, who rides where wind and waves contend. 

And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide 

His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. 



118 POEMS OF 

SONNET VI. 

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

[This Sonnet was addressed to the author of this vohime, and was occa- 
sioned by several little quatorzains, misnomered sonnets, which he pub- 
lished in the " Monthly Mirror." He begs leave to return his thanks to 
the much respected writer for the permission so politely granted to insert 
it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his 
productions.] 

Ye, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, 
" Severest of those orders which belong, 
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," 

Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze ? 

And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days. 

Assume, its rules disowned ? whom from the throng 

The Muse selects, their ear the charm obeys 
Of its full harmony : — they fear to wrong 

The Sonnet, by adorning with a name 

Of that distinguished import, lays, though sweet. 
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet 

Of that so varied and peculiar frame. 

Oh think ! to vindicate its genuine praise 

Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favoring impulse sways. 



SONNET VII. 

KECANTATORT, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT ADMONITION. 

Let the sublimer Muse, who, wrapt in night, 
Eides on the raven pennons of the storm. 
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm. 

Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight ; 

Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, 
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form. 
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, 



HENRY 



KfRKE WHITE. H^ 



The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. 
But me, far lowest of the sylvan train, 

Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade 
With wildest song ; — Me, much behoves thy aid 
Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, 
And give it power to please, as soft it flows 
Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close. 



SONNET VIII. 

ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN ^OLIAN HABP, 

So ravishingly soft upon the tide 
Of the infuriate gust, it did career. 
It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, 
And sunk him to a zephyr ; — then it died, 
Melting in melody : — and I descried 

Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear 
Of Druid sage, w^ho on the far-off ear 
Poured his lone song, to which the surge replied : 
Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, 
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds. 
By unseen beings sung ; or are these sounds. 
Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell 
By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, 
Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death ? 



SONNET IX. 



What art thou, Mighty One ! and where thy seat ? 

Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. 

And thou dost bear within thine awful liands, 
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. 



120 POEMS OF 

Stern on tliy dark-wrouglit car of cloud, and wind, 

Thou guidest tlie northern storm at night's dead 
noon, 

Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon, 
Disturh'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. 
In the drear silence of the polar span 

Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude 
Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan 

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? 
Vain thought ! the confines of his throne to trace, 
Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. 



A BALLAD. 

Be hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds, 

Ye pelting rains, a little rest : 
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts. 

That wring with grief my aching breast. 

Oh, cruel was my faithless love, 
To triumph o'er an artless maid : 

Oh, cruel was my faithless love, 

To leave the breast by him betrayed. 

When exiled from my native home, 
He should have wiped the bitter tear : 

Nor left me faint and lone to roam, 
A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 

My child moans sadly in my arms, 
The winds they will not let it sleep ; 

Ah, little knows the hapless babe, 

^Yhat makes its wretched mother weep ! 



HENRY KIR KE AVHITE. 121 

Now lie thee still, my infant dear, 

I cannot bear tliy sobs to see, 
Harsli is thy father, little one. 

And never will he shelter thee. 

Oh, that I were but in my grave. 
And winds were piping o'er me loud, 

And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, 
Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud. 



THE LULLABY 

OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS 

TO EXECUTION. 

Sleep,* baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom. 
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast ; 

Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother. 
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. 

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining. 
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled ; 

Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, 
And I would fain compose my aching head. 

Poor wayward wretch ! and who will heed thy weeping, 
When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be : 

Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping, 
Li her low grave of shame and infamy ! 

Sleep, baby mine. — To-morrow I must leave thee. 
And I would snatch an interval of rest ; 

Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, 
For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. 

* Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning, " Sleep, baby mine." 



122 



POEMS, 



WRITTEN DURING, OR SHORTLY AFTER, THE PUBLICATION 
OF CLIFTON GROVE. 



ODE, 

ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ., R.A., ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS 

FROM HIS DESIGNS. 

Mighty Magician ! wlio on Torneo's brow, 

"Wlien sullen tempests wrap tlie throne of niglit, 
Art wont to sit and catcli the gleam of light 

That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below ; 

And listen to the distant death-shriek long 

From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, 
"Which rises slowly up the rocky steep. 

While the weird sisters weave the horrid song : 
Or when along the liquid sky 
Serenely chant the orbs on high. 
Dost love to sit in musing trance 
And mark the northern meteor's dance, 
(While far below the fitful oar 
Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) 
And list the music of the breeze, 
That sweeps by fits the bending seas ; 
And often bears with sudden swell 
The shipwrecked sailor's funeral knell. 
By the spirits sung who keep 
Their night watch on the treacherous deep. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIEKE AVHITE. 123 

And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye 

To Helice in northern sky ; 

And there upon the rock inclined 

"With mighty visions fiU'st the mind, 

Such as bound in magic spell 

Him* who grasped the gates of hell, 
And bursting Pluto's dark domain 
Held to the day the Terrors of his reign. 

Genius of Horror and romantic awe, 
Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, 
Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep. 

Can force the inmost soul to own its law ; 
"Who shall now, sublimest spirit, 
"Wlio shall now thy wand inherit. 
From himf thy darling child who best 
Thy shuddering images exprest ? 
Sullen of soul and stern and proud. 
His gloomy spirit spurned the crowd. 

And noAV he lays his aching head 

In the dark mansion of the silent dead. 

Mighty Magician ! long thy wand has lain 
Buried beneath the unfathomable deep ; 
And oh ! forever must its efforts sleep, 
May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain ! 
Oh yes, 'tis his ! — Thy other son 
He throws thy dark-wrought Tunic on, 
Fuesslin waves thy wand, — again they rise. 
Again thy wildering forms salute our ravished eyes. 
Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep 

Where round his head the volleyed lightnings flung. 
And the loud winds that round his pillow rung 

^ Dante. t Ibid. 



1^4 POEMS OP 

"Wooed tlie stern infant to the arms of sleep. 

Or on tlie highest top of Teneriffe, 
Seated the fearless Boy, and bade him look 

Where far below the weather-beaten skiff 
On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. 

Thou mark'st him drink with ruthless ear 
The death-sob, and disdaining rest, 
Thou sawest how danger fired his breast. 

And in his young hand couched the visionary spear. 
Then Superstition at thy call, 
She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, 
And sat before his awe-struck sight 
The savage feast and spectred fight ; 
And summoned from his mountain tomb 
The ghastly warrior son of gloom. 
His fabled runic rhymes to sing 
While fierce Hresvelger flapped his wing; 
Thou showedst the trains the shepherd sees, 
Laid on the stormy Hebrides, 
Which on the mists of evening gleam 
Or crowd the foaming desert stream ; 
Lastly, her storied hand she waves, 
And lays him in Florentian caves ; 
There milder fables, lovelier themes, 
Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, 
There, pity's lute arrests his ear. 
And draws the half-reluctant tear ; 
And now at noon of night he roves 
Along the embowering moonlight groves, 
And as from many a caverned dell 
The hollow wind is heard to swell. 
He thinks some troubled spirit sighs, 
And as upon the turf he lies, 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 125 

Where sleeps the silent beam of night, 
He sees below the gliding sprite, 
And hears in Fancy's organs sound 
Aerial music warbling round. 

Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, 
And breathes her polish o'er his soul ; 
Glowing with wild, yet chastened heat. 
The wondrous work is now complete. 

The poet dreams : — The shadow flies. 

And fainting fast its image dies. 

But lo ! the Painter's magic force 

Arrests the phantom's fleeting course ; 

It lives — it lives — the canvas glows, 

And tenfold vigor o'er it flows. 
The Bard beholds the work achieved, 

And as he sees the shadow rise, 

Sublime before his wandering eyes. 
Starts at the image his own mind conceived. 



ODE, 

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K.G. 

Ketired, remote from human noise, 

A humble Poet dwelt serene. 
His lot was lowly, yet his joys 

Were manifold I ween. 
He laid him by the brawling brook 
At eventide to ruminate. 

He watched the swallow swimming round. 

And mused, in reverie profound, 



126 POEMS OF 

On wayward man's unliappy state, 

And pondered mucli, and paused on deeds of ancient 
date. 

II. 1. 

"Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, 
" There was a time when genius claimed 

Respect from even towering pride, 
Nor hung her head ashamed ; 

But now to wealth alone we bow, 
The titled and the rich alone, 

Are honored, while meek merit pines, 

On penury's wretched couch reclines. 
Unheeded in his dying moan, 
As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown. 

III. 1. 

" Yet was the muse not always seen 
In poverty's dejected mien, 
'Not always did repining rue. 
And misery her steps pursue. 
Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced, 
By the sweet honors of poetic bays. 
When Sidney sung his melting song, 
"When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng. 
And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays. 
Those days are gone — alas, forever gone ! 

No more our nobles love to grace 
Their brows with anadems, by genius won, 
But arrogantly deem the Muse as base ; 
How differently thought the sires of this degenerate 
race!" 

I. 2. 

Thus sang the minstrel : — still at eve 
The upland's woody shades among. 



HENRY KIRKEWHITE. 127 



In broken measures did lie grieve, 

With solitary song. 
And still his shame was aye the same, 

l^eglect had stung him to the core ; 
And he, with pensive joy did love 
To seek the still congenial grove, 

And muse on all his sorrows o'er. 
And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. 

II. 2. 

But human vows, how frail they be ! 

Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, 
And all amazed, he thought to see 

The Augustan age anew. 
Filled with wild rapture, up he rose, 
^o more he ponders on the woes, 
Which erst he felt that forward goes, 

Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, 
And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. 

III. 2. 

Ah ! silly man, yet smarting sore. 
With ills which in the world he bore. 
Again on futile hope to rest. 
An unsubstantial prop at best. 
And not to know one swallow makes no summer! 

Ah ! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, 
Which flashed across the hemisiDhere, 
Illumining the darkness there. 

Was but a simple solitary beam. 
While all around remained in customed night. 

Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, 
In the false court's delusive height, 

And only one Carhsle is seen, 
To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light. 



128 POEMS OF 



DESCKIPTIO:^ OF A SUMMER'S EYE. 

Down tlie sultry arc of clay, 

The burning wheels have urged their way, 

And Eve along the western skies 

Sheds her intermingling dyes. 

Down the deep, the miry lane, 

Creaking comes the empty wain. 

And Driver on the shaft-horse sits, 

"Whistling now and then by fits ; 

And oft, with his accustomed call, 

Urging on the sluggish Ball. 

The barn is still, the master's gone. 

And Thresher puts his jacket on, 

While Dick, upon the ladder tall, 

i^ails the dead kite to the wall. 

Here comes shepherd Jack at last. 

He has penned the sheep-cote fast, 

For 'twas but two nights before, 

A lamb was eaten on the moor : 

His empty wallet Rover carries, 

ITor for Jack, when near home, tarries. 

With lolling tongue he runs to try, 

If the horse-trough be not dry. 

The milk is settled in the pans, 

And supper messes in the cans ; 

In the hovel carts are wheeled. 

And both the colts are drove afield ; 

The horses are all bedded up, 

And the ewe is with the tup. 

The snare for Mister Fox is set 

The leaven laid, the thatching wet. 

And Bess has slinked away to talk 

With Roger in the holly-walk. 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 129 

]!!^ow on the settle all, but Bess, 
Are set to eat their supper mess ; 
And little Tom, and roguish Kate, 
Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
]^ow they chat of various things, 
Of taxes, ministers, and kings, 
Or else tell all the village news, 
How madam did the 'squire refuse ; 
How parson on his tithes was bent, 
And landlord oft distrained for rent. 
Thus do they talk, till in the sky 
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, 
And from the alehouse drunken i!^ed 
Has reeled — then hasten all to bed. 
The mistress sees that Lazy Kate 
The happing coal on kitchen grate 
Has laid — while master goes throughout, 
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out. 
The candles safe, the hearths all clear, 
And nought from thieves or fire to fear; 
Then both to bed together creep. 
And join the general troop of sleep. 



TO COKTEMPLATIOK 

Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell 
In some retired Lapponian cell. 
Where far from noise, and riot rude, 
Resides sequestered solitude. 
Come, and o'er my longing soul 

Throw thy dark and russet stole, 

9 



13^ POEMS OF 

And open to my duteous eyes, 
The volume of tliy mysteries. 

I will meet tliee on the hill, 

Where, with printless footstep still 

The morning in her buskin gray, 

Springs upon her eastern way ; 

Wliile the frolic zephyrs stir, 

Playing with the gossamer. 

And, on ruder pinions borne. 

Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 

There, as o'er the fields we pass, 

Brushing with hasty feet the grass, 

"We will startle from her nest. 

The lively lark with speckled breast. 

And hear the floating clouds among 

Her gale-transported matin song. 

Or on the upland stile embowered, 

With fraoTant hawthorn snowy-fiowered, 

Will sauntering sit, and listen still. 

To the herdsman's oaten quill. 

Wafted from the plain below ; 

Or the heifer's frequent low; 

Or the milkmaid in the grove. 

Sins-ins: of one that died for love. 

Or when the noontide heats oppress. 

We will seek the dark recess, 

Where, in the embowered translucent stream. 

The cattle shun the sultry beam. 

And o'er us, on the marge reclined, 

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind. 

While echo, from her ancient oak. 

Shall answer to the woodman's stroke ; 



HEXRY KIRK E WHITE. lol 

Or the little peasant's song, 
AYanclering lone the glens among, 
His artless lip with berries dyed, 
And feet through ragged shoes descried. 

But, oh, when evening's virgin queen 
Sits on her fringed throne serene. 
And mingling whispers rising near, 
Steal on the still reposing ear ; 
While distant brooks decaying round. 
Augment the mixed dissolving sound. 
And the zephyr flitting by, 
Whispers mystic harmony, 
We will seek the woody lane, 
By the hamlet, on the plain. 
Where the weary rustic nigh. 
Shall whistle his wild melody. 
And the croaking wicket oft 
Shall echo from the neighboring croft ; 
And as we trace the green path lone. 
With moss and rank weeds overgrown. 
We will muse on pensive lore. 
Till the full soul brimming o'er. 
Shall in our upturned eyes appear, 
Embodied in a quivering tear. 
Or else, serenely silent, sit 
By the brawling rivulet. 
Which on its calm unruffled breast, 
Eears the old mossy arch impressed. 
That clasps its secret stream of glass. 
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, 
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, 
XJnpressed by fawn or sylvan's feet. 



132 



POEMS OF 



AVe'll watcli in Eve's ethereal braid, 
The rich verniiUon slowly fade ; 
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar. 
The first glimpse of the eastern star. 
Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light. 
That heralds in imperial night: 
Meanwhile, npon onr wondering ear 
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, 
The distant sounds of pastoral lute, 
Invoking soft the sober suit 
Of dimmest darkness— fitting well 
With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, 
(So erst did music's silver tone, 
Wake slumbering chaos on his throne.) 
And haply, then, with sudden swell, 
Shall roar the distant curfew bell, 
While in the castle's mouldering tower, 
The hooting owl is heard to pour 
Her melancholy song, and scare 
Pull silence brooding in the air. 
Meanwhile her dusk and slumbenng car, 
Black-suited night drives on from far. 
And Cynthia's, 'merging from her rear, 
Arrests the waxing darkness drear, 
And summons to her silent call, 
Sweeping in their airy pall. 
The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, 
To join her moonshine morrice-dance ; 
While around the mystic ring, ^ 
The shadowy shapes elastic spring. 
Then with a passing shriek they fiy, 
Wrapt in mists along the sky, 
And oft are by the shepherd seen. 
In his lone night-watch on the green. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet 

To the low Abbey's still retreat. 

Embowered in the distant glen. 

Far from the haunts of busy men, 

Where, as we sit upon the tomb. 

The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom, 

And show to fancy's saddest eye, 

Wliere some lost hero's ashes lie. 

And oh, as through the mouldering arch, 

With ivy filled and weeping larch, 

The night-gale whispers sadly clear. 

Speaking dear things to fancy's ear. 

We'll hold communion with the shade 

Of some deep-wailing ruined maid — 

Or call the ghost of Spencer down. 

To tell of woe and fortune's frown ; 

And bid us cast the eye of hope. 

Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 

Or if these joys, to us denied. 

To linger by the forest's side ; 

Or in the meadow or the wood. 

Or by the lone romantic flood ; 

Let us in the busy town, 

When sleep's dull streams the people drown, 

Far from drowsy pillows flee. 

And turn the church's massy key ; 

Then, as through the painted glass. 

The moon's pale beams obscurely pass 

And darkly on the trophied wall. 

Her faint ambiguous shadows fall ; 

Let us, while the faint winds wail, 

Through the long reluctant aisle. 

As we pace with reverence meet. 

Count the echoings of our feet ; 



133 



134 POEMS OF 

While from tlie tombs, with confessed breath, 

Distinct responds the voice of death. 

If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend. 

Thus on my footsteps to attend, 

To thee my lonely lamp shall burn, 

By fallen Genius' sainted urn ! 

As o'er the scroll of Time I pore. 

And sagely spell of ancient lore. 

Till I can rightly guess of all 

That Plato could to memory call. 

And scan the formless views of things, 

Or with old Egypt's fettered kings. 

Arrange the mystic trains that shine 

In night's high philosophic mine ; 

And to thy name shall e'er belong 

The honors of undying song. 



ODE TO THE GEOTUS OF ROMAI^CE. 

Oh, thou wdio in my early youth. 
When fancy wore the garb of truth, 
Wert wont to win my infant feet, 
To some retired, deep-fabled seat, 
Wliere by the brooklet's secret tide. 
The midnight ghost was known to glide ; 
Or lay me in some lonely glade, 
In native Sherwood's forest shade. 
Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, 
Was w^ont his sylvan courts to hold ; 
And there as musing deep I lay. 
Would steal my little soul away. 
And all thy pictures represent. 
Of siege and solemn tournament ; 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 135 

Or bear me to tlie magic scene, 

Wliere clad in greaves and gaberdine 

The warrior kniglit of chivalry, 

Made many a fierce enchanter flee ; 

And bore the high-born dame away, 

Long held the fell magician's prey. 

Or oft would tell the shudderino; tale 

Of murders, and of goblins pale. 

Haunting the guilty baron's side 

(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), 

"Which o'er the vaulted corridore. 

On stormy nights was heard to roar. 

By old domestic, wakened wide 

By the angry winds that chide. 

Or else the mystic tale would tell. 

Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. 



THE SAYOYAED'S RETURK 

Oh, yonder is the well-known spot. 

My dear, my long-lost native home ! 
Oh ! welcome is yon little cot. 

Where I shall rest, no more to roam ! 
Oh ! I have travelled far and wide. 

O'er many a distant foreign land; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 

And sung and danced my saraband. 
But all their charms could not prevail, 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



136 POEMS OP 

II. 

Of distant climes the false report 

It lured me from my native land ; 
It bade me rove — my sole support 

My cymbals and my saraband. 
The woody dell, the hanging rock, 

The chamois skipping o'er the heights ; 
The plain adorned with many a flock, 

And, oh ! a thousand more delights, 
That grace yon dear beloved retreat, 
Have backward won my weary feet. 

III. 
[N'ow safe returned, with wandering tired, 

'No more my little home I'll leave ; 
And many a tale of what I've seen 

Shall while away the winter's eve. 
Oh ! I have wandered far and wide. 
O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried. 
And sung and danced my saraband ; 
But all their charms could not prevail. 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



LmES 



Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel LoffVs beau- 
tiful and interesting preface to Natlianiel Bloomf eld's poems, just published. — 
" It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the iriipression of its 
melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, 
the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste 
than its sweets delight it." 

Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still," 
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ; 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 137 

Preacli to tlie storm, and reason witli despair, 
But tell not Misery's son that life is fair ! 

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast rolled, 
And every year with new delight hast told. 
Thou, who recumhent on the lacquered harge, 
Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, 
Thou mayst extol life's calm untrouhled sea. 
The storms of misery never burst on thee ! 

Go to the mat where squalid want reclines. 
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines ; 
Abide with him whom penury's charms control. 
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, 
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there, 
Tell the poor pallid wretch, that life is fair ! 

Press thou the lonely pillow of his head. 
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled : 
Mark his dewed temples, and his half-shut eye. 
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drxiwn sigh, 
His muttering mouth, contorted with despair, 
And ask if Genius could inhabit there. 

Oh yes ! that sunken eye with fire once gleamed, 
And rays of light from its full circlet streamed ; 
But now neglect has stung him to the core, 
And hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more. 

Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round. 
And added Grief compels him to the ground. 
Lo ! o'er his manly form, decayed and wan. 
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on ; 
And the pale mother pining to decay, 
"Weeps for her boy, her wretched life away. 



138 POEMS OF 

Go, cliild of Fortune ! to his early grave, 
Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave ; 
Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head 
On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. 
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, 
And tell us then that life is wondrous fair ! 

Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretched forth, 
T' encourage genius, and to foster worth; 
On thee, th' unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 
'Tis just that every blessing should descend; 
'Tis just that life to thee should only show, 
Her fairer side but little mixed with woe. 



WKITTElsr m THE PEOSPECT OF DEATH. 

Sad solitary Thought^ who keep'st thy vigils, 

Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind ; 

Communing lonely with his sinking soul. 

And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 

In dim obscurity before him, — thee, 

"Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call 

At this still midnight hour, this awful season, 

When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 

I turn me wearisome ; while all around, 

All, all save me, sink in forgetfulness ; 

I only wake to watch the sickly taper 

Which lights me to my tomb. — Yes, 'tis the hand 

Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, 

Slow sapping the warm current of existence. 

My moments now are few. — The sand of life 

Ebbs fastly to its finish. — Yet a little. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. ^^^ 



And the last fleeting particle will fall, 

Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 

Come, then, sad thought, and let us meditate, 

"Wliile meditate we may. — We have now 

But a small portion of what men call time 

To hold communion ; for even now the knife, 

The separating knife, I feel divide 

The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 

Yes, I must die — I feel that I must die ; 

And though to me has life been dark and dreary. 

Though hope for me has smiled but to deceive. 

And disappointment still pursued her blandishments : 

Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me 

As I contemplate the dim gulf of death. 

The shuddering void, the awful blank — futurity. 

Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme 

Of earthly happiness, — romantic schemes. 

And fraught with loveliness ; and it is hard 

To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps, 

Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes. 

And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, 

Lost in the gaping gulf of black oblivion. 

Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry ? 

Oh ! none : — another busy brood of beings 

Will shoot up in the interim, and none 

Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink. 

As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 

Of busy London ; — Some short bustle's caused, 

A few inquiries, and the crowds close in. 

And all's forgotten. — On my grassy grave 

The men of future times will careless tread. 

And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; 

'Nov will the sound, familiar to their ears, 

Eecall my vanished memory. — I did hope 



140 POEMS OF 

For better things ! — I hoped I should not leave 
The earth without a vestige ; — Fate decrees 
It shall be otherwise, and I submit. 
Henceforth, oh world, no more of thy desires ! 
1^0 more of hope ! the wanton vagrant Hope ! 
I abjure all. — ITow other cares engross me, 
And my tired soul with emulative haste. 
Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for heaven. 



PASTOEAL SOIs^G. 

Come, Anna ! come, the morning dawns, 

Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies ; 
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, 
And watch the early lark arise ; 
While nature clad in vesture gay, 
Hails the loved return of day. 

Our flocks that nip the scanty blade 

Upon the moor, shall seek the vale ; 
And then, secure beneath the shade. 
We'll listen to the throstle's tale ; 
And watch the silver clouds above, 
As o'er the azure vault they rove. 

Come, Anna ! come, and bring thy lute, 

That with its tones, so softly sweet. 
In cadence with my mellow flute. 
We may beguile the noontide heat ; 
While near the mellow bee shall join. 
To raise a harmony divine. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 141 

And tlien at eve, when silence reigns, 

Except wlien heard the beetle's hum ; 
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains, 

To these sweet height's again we'll come ; 
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play 
A solemn vesper to departing day. 



ODE TO MIDOTGHT. 

Season of general rest, whose solemn still 
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill. 

But speaks to philosophic souls delight : 
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, 
My candle waning melancholy by, 

I sit and taste the holy calm of night. 

Yon pensive orb that through the ether sails. 
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales. 

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame ; 
To her, while all around in sleep recline, 
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine. 

And sing the gentle honors of her name ; 

While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, 
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends. 

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song ; 
And Superstition's gentle terrors come. 
See, see, yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom ! 

See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng ! 

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, 
My flageolet — and as I pensive play, 



142 P E M S F 

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene : 
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, 
Hears them aghast — (while still the dull owl pours 

Her hollow screams each dreary pause between). 

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, 
'Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, 

Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep ; 
And mid the dreary solitude serene, 
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene. 

And raise my mournful eye to heaven and weep. 



ODE TO THOUGHT. 



WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 



I. 

Hence away, vindictive Thought ! 

Thy pictures are of pain ; 
The visions through thy dark eye caught, 
They with no gentle charms are fraught, 
So prithee back again. 
I would not weep, 
I wish to sleep. 
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep ? 

II. 

"Why dost o'er bed and couch recline ? 

Is this thy new delight ? 
Pale visitant, it is not thine 
To keep thy sentry through the mine, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 143 

The dark vault of tlie niglit : 
'Tis tliine to die, 
"While o'er the eye, 
The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. 

III. 

Go thou and bide with him who guides 

His bark through lonely seas ; 
And as, reclining on his helm. 
Sadly he marks the starry realm, 
To him thou mayst bring ease ; 
But thou to me 
Art misery. 
So prithee, prithee plume thy wings and from my pillow 
flee. 

IV. 

And Memory, pray what art thou ? 

Art thou of pleasure born ? 
Does bliss untainted from thee flow ? 
The rose that gems thy pensive brow, 
Is it without a thorn ? 
With all thy smiles, 
And witching wiles. 
Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. 

V. 

The drowsy night-watch has forgot 

To call the solemn hour ; 
Lulled by the winds he slumbers deep, 
While I in vain, capricious sleep, 
Invoke thy tardy power ; 
And restless lie, 
With unclosed eye, 
And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. 



H4 POEMS OF 

GE^tTIUS. 

AN ODE. 

I. 1. 

Many there be wlio, tlirougli the vale o'f life, 

With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go. 
While jarring discord's inharmonious strife 

Awakes them not to woe. 
By them unheeded, carking care. 
Green-eyed grief, and dull despair ; 
Smoothly they pursue their way. 

With even tenor, and with equal breath ; 
Alike through cloudy, and through sunny day, 

Then sink in peace to death. 

II. 1. 

'But ah ! a few there be whom griefs devour. 

And weeping woe, and disappointment keen, 
Kepining penury, and sorrow sour. 

And self-consuming spleen. 
And these are Genius' favorites : these 
Know the thought-throned mind to please, 
And from her fleshy seat to draw 

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, 
Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, 

The captivated soul. 

III. 1. 

Genius, from thy starry throne, 
High above the burning zone. 
In radiant robe of light arrayed, 
Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favorite made, 
His melancholy moan. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1 *-5 

He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, 

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, 
Pangs that his sensibility uprouse 

To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. 
Thou gavest to him, with treble force to feel, 

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn. 
And what o'er all does in his soul preside 

Predominant, and tempers him to steel, 
His high indignant pride. 



I. 2. 

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 

That G enius visits not your lowly shed ; 
For ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife, 

Distract his hapless head ! 
For him awaits no balmy sleep. 
He wakes all night, and wakes to weep ; 
Or, by his lonely lamp he sits. 

At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps. 
In feverish study, and in moody fits 

His mournful vigils keeps. 

II. 2. 

And, oh ! for what consumes his watchful oil ? 

For what does thus he waste life's fleetins: breath ? 
'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 
'Tis for untimely death. 
Lo ! where, dejected, pale, he lies, 
Despair depicted in his eyes. 
He feels the vital flame decrease, 

He sees the grave, wide yawning for its prey, 
"Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace. 
And cheer the expiring ray. 

10 



146 POEMS OF 

III. 2. 

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, 
By gentle Otway's magic name, 
By him, tlie youth, who smiled at death. 
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, 

"Will I thy pangs proclaim ; 
For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, 
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, 

And far resounding fame. 
What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, 
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low ; 
Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, 
And thou, at thy flashed car, dost nations draw, 
Yet ah ! unseen behind thee fly 

Corroding anguish, soul-subduing pain. 
And discontent that clouds the fairest sky : 

A melancholy train. 
Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await. 
Mocking thy derided state ; 
Thee, chill Adversity will still attend. 
Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend, 

And leaves thee all forlorn ; 
While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs. 

And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides. 
And while the cup of affluence he quaffs 
"With bee-eyed wisdom, Genius derides. 
Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave. 
To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in 
his grave. 



FRAGMENT OF AN" ODE TO THE MOO:^. 



I. 



Mild orb who floatest through the realm of night, 
A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild ; 



HENKY KIR KE WHITE. 147 

Welcome to me thy soft and pensive liglit, 

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. 
ISTow doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, 
IN'octurnal study's still retreat, 
It casts a mournful, melancholy gleam, 
And through my lofty casement weaves, 
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves. 
An intermingled beam. 

II. 

These feverish dews that on my temples hang, 

This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame ; 
These the dread signs of many a secret pang, 

These are the meed of him who pants for fame ! 
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul : 

Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high ; 
My lamp expires ; — beneath thy mild control, 

These restless dreams are ever wont to fly. 

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast, 
Soothe these discordant tones to rest. 

And breathe the soul of peace ; 
Mild visitor, I feel thee here. 
It is not pain that brings this tear, 

For thou hast bid it cease. 
Oh ! many a year has passed away. 
Since I beneath thy fairy ray, 

Attuned my infant reed ; 
Wlien wilt thou. Time, those days restore. 
Those happy moments now no more. 

When on the lake's damp marge I lay, 
And marked the northern meteor's dance ; 



148 POEMS OF 

Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there, 
To in spiral e my trance. 

Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign, 
Your magic sweets on me to shed. 
In vain your powers are now essayed 

To cliase superior pain. 

And art tliou fled, thou welcome orb ? 

So swiftly pleasure flies ; 
So to mankind, in darkness lost. 

The beam of ardor dies. 
Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, 
And now, encurtained in the main, 

Thou sinkest into rest ; 
But I, in vain, on thorny bed. 
Shall woo the god of soft repose. 



FRAGMENT. 

Oh ! thou most fatal of Pandora's train. 

Consumption ! silent cheater of the eye ; 
Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain, 

Nor mark'st thy course with death's delusive dye. 
But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie : 

O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost difiuse, 
And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye, 

While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues. 
E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues. 

Oft I've beheld thee in the glow of youth. 
Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloomed ; 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 149 

And dropt a tear, for then thy cankering tooth 
1 knew woukl never stay, till, all consumed, 
In the cold vault of death he were entombed. 

But oh ! what sorrow did I feel, as swift. 

Insidious ravager, I saw thee % 
Tlirongh fair Luoina's breast of whitest snow 

i repanng swift her passage to the sky 
Though still intelligence beamed in the glance 

The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye 
let soon did languid listlessness advance 
And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance. 

Even when her end was swiftly drawing near 
And dissolution hovered o'er her head • 

Even then so beauteous did her form appekr 
That none who saw her but admiring said 
Sure so much beauty never could be dead.' 

\ et the dark lash of her expressive eye 

-Bent lowly down upon the languid— ' 



SOM^ETS. 



TO CAPEL LOPFT, ESQ. 

LoFPT, unto thee one tributary sono- 

The simple Muse, admiring, fain'^ould bring- 
She longs to lisp thee to the listening throno- ' 

And with thy name to bid the woodlands'ino- 
Faon would she blazon all thy virtues forth, " 

ihy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, 



150 POEMS OF 

Would say liow thou didst foster kindred worth, 
And to thy bosom snatched misfortune's child : 

Firm would she paint thee, with becoming zeal. 
Upright and learned, as the Pylian sire, 
Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, 

And show thy labors for the public weal. 
Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, 
But ah ! she shrinks abashed before the arduous theme. 



TO THE MOON. 

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. 



Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 
Of the horizon dim, thee, ]Moon, I hail. 
As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale 

Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. 

Xow Autumn sickens on the languid sight. 

And falling leaves bestrew the wanderer's way, 

:N'ow unto thee, pale arbitress of night, 
"With double joy my homage do I pay. 
"When clouds disguise the glories of the day. 

And stern E'ovember sheds her boisterous blight. 
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray 

Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, 
And, still unchanged, back to the memor^^ bring. 
The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. 



WRITTEN AT THE GRATE OF A FRIEND. 



Fast from the west, the fading day-streaks fly. 
And ebon Mght assumes her solemn sway ; 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 151 

Yet here alone, unheeding thue, I lie, 

And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. 
Oh ! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I wooed 

The maid of musings by yon moaning wave ; 
And hailed the moon's mild beam, which now renewed, 

Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave ! 
The busy world pursues its boisterous way, 

The noise of revelry still echoes round ; 
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay ; 

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. 
Oh ! that like thee I might bid sorrow cease. 
And 'neath the greensward sleep — the sleep of peace. 



TO MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune, I am young, — my chin is bare, 

And I have wondered much when men have told 
How youth was free from sorrow and from care. 

That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. 
Sure dost not like me ! — Shrivelled hag of hate, 

My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long ; 

I am not either, Beldame, over strong ; 
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate. 
For thou, sweet fury, art my utter hate. 
^N'ay, shake not thus thy miserable pate ; 
I am yet young, and do not like thy face ; 
And lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, 
I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, 
Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. 



As thus oppressed with many a heavy care, 
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet 



152 POEMS OF 

To tlie dark woodland, — longing mucli to greet 
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there; 
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, 

Fills my sad breast ; and tired Avith this vain coil, 

I shrink dismayed before life's upland toil. 
And as amid the leaves the evening air 
"Whispers still melody, — I think ere long, 

"When I no more can hear, these woods will speak ; 

And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, 
And mournful fantasies upon me throng, 
And I do ponder with most strange delight. 
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. 



TO APRIL. 

Emblem of life ! see changeful April sail 
In varying vest along the shadowy skies, 
'Now, bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise. 
Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale. 
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail ; 

Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, 
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, 
Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. 
So, to us sojourners in life's low vale. 
The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive, 
Wliile still the Fates the web of misery weave. 
So hope exultant spreads her aery sail. 
And from the present gloom, the soul conveys, 
To distant summers, and far happier days. 



Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies. 
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 158 

Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, 

As by the wood-spring stretched supine he lies ; 

When he who now invokes you low is laid 

His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed ; 
Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, 

And chant a dirge to his reposing shade ! 
For he was wont to love your madrigals ; 

And often by the haunted stream that 'laves 

The dark sequestered woodland's inmost caves. 
Would sit and listen to the dying falls. 
Till the full tear would quiver in his eve. 
And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy. 



TO A TAPER. 



-Tis midnight.-On the globe dead slumber sits, 

And all is silence— in the hour of sleep ; 
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits. 

In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. 
I wake alone to listen and to weep, 

To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn ; 
And, as still memory does her vigils keep. 

To think of days that never can return.' 
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, 

My eye surveys the solitary gloom ; 
And the sad meaning tear, unmixed with dread. 

Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. 
Like thee I wane ;— like thine my life's last ray 
Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. 



Yes, 'tmll be over soon.— This sickly dream 
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; 



154 P E M S F 

And death my wearied spirit will redeem 

From tills wild region of unvaried pain. 
Yon brook will glide as softly as before, 

Yon landscape smile,— yon golden harvest grow, 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar, 

When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress. 

They laugh in health, and future evils brave ; 
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, 

lYhile I am mouldering in my silent grave. 
God of the just ! thou gavest the bitter cup, 
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. 



TO CONSUMPTION. 



Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, 
ConsumiDtion, lay thine hand ! — let me decay, 
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, 

And softly go to slumber with the dead. 

And if 'tis true what holy men have said. 
That strains angelic oft fortell the day 
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, 

let the aerial music round my bed. 

Dissolving sad in dying symphony, 

"Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear ; 

That I may bid my weeping friends good-by, 
Ere I depart upon my journey drear: 

And smiling faintly on the painful past, 

Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. 

Thy judgments. Lord, are just ; thou lovest to wear 
The face of pity, and of love divine ; 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 155 

But mine is guilt — ^thou must not, canst not, spare, 

Wliile Heaven is true, and equity is thine. 
Yes, oh, my God ! — such crimes as mine, so dread, 

Leave but the choice of punishment to thee ; 
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head. 

And even thy mercy dares not plead for me ! 
Thy will he done — since 'tis thy glory's due. 

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow ; 
Smite — it is time — though endless death ensue, 

I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. 
But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood. 
That has not first been drenched in Christ's atoning 
blood ? 



TO A FEIEXD EST DISTRESS, 

Who, when the author reasoned with him calmly, asked, ^^ If he did not fed 

for him ?"' 

''Bo I not feel f The doubt is keen as steel. 

Yea, I do feel — most exquisitely feel ; 

My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye 

I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh : 

Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, 

And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. 

On this I act — whatever pangs surround, 

' Tis magnanimity to hide the wound. 

When all was new, and life was in its spring, 

I lived an unloved solitary thing ; 

Even then I learnt to bury deep from day 

The piercing cares that wore my youth away. 

Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel. 

Even then I wept I had not power to heal ; 



156 P E M S F 

Even tlien, deep-sounding tlirougli the niglitly gloom, 
I heard the wretch's groan, and mourned the 

wretched's doom. 
Who were my friends in youth ? — The midnight fire — 
The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir ; 
To these I 'plained, or turned from outer sight, 
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light ; 
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn. 
For vulgar pity mixed with vulgar scorn ; 
The sacred source of woe I never ope, 
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. 
But that I do feel, time, my friend, will show. 
Though the cold crowd the secret never know : 
With them I laugh — ^yet when no eye can see, 
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. 

Yes, thou didst wrong me, ; I fondly thought, 

In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought ; 
I fondly thought that thou couldst pierce the guise, 
And read the truth that in my bosom lies ; 
I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone, 
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one ! 
Yes — and they yet will mingle. Days and years 
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears : 
We then shall feel that friendship has a power, 
To soothe afiliction in her darkest hour ; 
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand. 
And wait the passport to a better land. 

Thine, 

Half-past 11 o^clock at night. H. K. WhITE. 



CimiSTMAS-DAY, 1804. 

Yet once more, and once more, awake, my harp. 
From silence and neglect — one lofty strain ; 



HEXRY KIRKE WHITE. 157 

Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, 
And speaking mysteries, more than words can tell, 
I ask of thee ; for I, with hymnings high. 
Would join the dirge of the departing year. 

Yet with, no wintry garland from the woods, 
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sere, 
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December ! now ; 
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, 
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day 
Of the Redeemer. — linear two thousand suns 
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse 
Of generations, since tlie day-spring first 
Beamed from on high ! — ^]^ow to the mighty mass 
Of that increasing aggregate, we add 
One unit more. Space, in comparison 
How small, yet marked with how mucli misery ; 
Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, 
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge ; 
The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness. 
Weeping their suflerance ; and the arm of wrong 
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, 
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. 

So has the year been charactered witb woe 

In Christian land, and marked witli wrongs and 

crimes ; 
Yet 'twas not thus He taught — not tbus He lived, 
Wliose birtli we this day celebrate v/ith prayer 
And much thanksgiving. — He, a man of woes. 
Went on the way appointed, — ^path, though rude, 
Yet borne with patience still : — He came to cheer 
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, 
And on the wandering and benighted mind 



1^8 POEMS OF 

To pour the light of truth. — task divine ! 
O more than angel teacher ! He had words 
To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds ; 
And when the soul was tossed in troubled seas, 
TVrapt in thick darkness and the howling storm. 
He, pointing to the star of peace on high, 
Armed it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile 
At the surrounding wreck. 
When with deep agony his heart was racked, 
Not for himself the tear-drop dewed his cheek, 
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He prayed. 
His persecutors — ''Father, pardon them, 
They know not what they do." 

Angels of Heaven, 
Ye who beheld him fainting on the cross. 
And did him homage, say, may mortal join 
The hallelujahs of the risen God? 
Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard 
Amid the seraphim in light divine ? 
Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign. 
For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith. 
Low though it be and humble. — ^Lord of life. 
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now. 
Fills my uprising soul. — I mount, I fly 
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs; 
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes. 
And care, and pain, and sorrow, are no more 



]^ELSOOT MOKS. 

Yet once again, my harp, yet once again. 
One ditty more, and on the mountain ash 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 1^9 

I will again suspend thee. I have felt 

The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last 

At even-tide, when all the winds were hushed, 

I woke to thee, the melancholy song. 

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, 

I've journeyed, and have learned to shape the freaks 

Of frolic fancy to the line of truth ; 

^Not unrepining, for my froward heart 

Still turns to thee, mine harp, and to the flow 

Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts 

Of my not songless boyhood. — ^Yet once more, 

'^ot fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones. 

My long-neglected harp. — He must not sink ; 

The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink 

Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour 

1^0 precious dews of Aganippe's well. 

Or Castaly, — though from the morning cloud 

I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse : 

Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, 

Of simple flowers, such as the hedgerows scent 

Of Britain my loved country ; and with tears 

Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe 

Thy honored corse, my Nelson, tears as warm 

And honest as the ebbing blood that flowed 

Fast from thy honest heart. — Thou Pity too, 

If ever I have loved, with faltering step. 

To follow thee in the cold and starless night. 

To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff"; 

And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud 

Amid the pauses of the storm, have poured 

Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds. 

Thy dying soul's viaticum ; if oft 



160 POEMS OF 

Amid the carnage of the fiekl I've sate 

With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung 

To cheer the fainting soklier's dying soul, 

With mercy and forgiveness ; visitant 

Of Heaven, sit thou upon my harp. 

And give it feeling, which were else too cold 

For argument so great, for theme so high. 

How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 
'Kerchiefed in mists, and tearful, when 

^ ^C 5^ ^ ?I* 



hym:n'. 

In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the 
splendors of the Deity. 

I. 

Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, 
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake ; 
We sing the Saviour of our race. 
The lamb, our shield, and hiding place. 

II. 
When God's right arm is bared for war, 
And thunders clothe his cloudy car. 
Where, where, oh where, shall man retire, 
To escape the horrors of his ire ? 

III. 
'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly. 
While the dread tempest passes by : 
God sees his Well-beloved's face. 
And spares us in our hiding place. 



HEXRY KIEKE WHITE. 101 

IV. 

Thus while we dwell in this low scene. 
The Lamb is our unfailing screen ; 
To him, though guilty, still we run, 
And God still spai-es us for his Son. 

V. 

While yet we sojourn here below, 
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow ; 
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race. 
We deeply need a hiding place. 

VI. 

Yet, courage !— days and years will glide, 
And we shall lay these clods aside ; 
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood. 
And washed in Jesus' cleansing blood. 

VII. 

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, 
We through the Lamb shall be decreed ; 
Shall meet the Father face to face, 
And need no more a hiding place. 

The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, by the author, 
one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and 
singing it, as he was used to do on such occasions. 



A HYMN FOR FAMILY W^OESHIP. 



I. 



Lord, another day is flown, 
And we, a lonely band, 
11 



1^52 POEMS OF 

Are met once more before thy throne, 
To bless thy fostermg hand. 

II. 
And wilt thou bend a listening ear, 

To praises low as ours ? 
Thou wilt ! for thou dost love to hear 

The song which meekness pours. 

III. 
And Jesus thou thy smiles will deign, 

As we before thee pray : 
For thou didst bless the infant train, 

And we are less than they. 

IV. 

let thy grace perform its part. 
And let contention cease ; 

And shed abroad in every heart 
Thine everlasting peace ! 

V. 

Thus chastened, cleansed, entirely thine, 

A flock by Jesus led ; 
The Sun of Holiness shall shine 

In glory on our head. 

VI. 

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, 
And thou wilt bless our way ; 

Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 
The dawn of lasting day. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1^3 



THE STAE OF BETHLEHEM. 

I. 

When marshalled on the nightly plain 
The glittering host bestud the sky ; 

One star alone, of all the train, 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 

II. 
Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks. 

From every host, from every gem ; 
But one alone the Saviour speaks. 

It is the star of Bethlehem. 



Ill, 
Once on the raging seas I rode. 

The storm was loud, — the night was dark, 
The ocean yawned, — and rudely blowed 

The wind that tossed my foundering bark ; 

IV, 

Deep horror then my vitals froze. 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 

When suddenly a star arose. 

It was the star of Bethlehem, 

V. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, 

It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 

And through the storm and dangers' thrall. 
It led me to the port of peace. 



164 POEMS OF 

VI. 

'Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 

Forever and for evermore, 

The star ! — the star of Bethlehem ! 



A HYMN. 



O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, 
In mercy hear a sinner mourn ! 
To thee I call, to thee I cry, 

leave me, leave me not to die ! 

1 strove against thee. Lord, I know, 

I spurned thy grace, I mocked thy law ; 
The hour is past — the day's gone by, 
And I am left alone to die. 

pleasures past, what are ye now 
But thorns about my bleeding brow ? 
Spectres that hover round my brain, 
And aggravate and mock my pain. 

For pleasure I have given my soul ; 
jN'ow, Justice, let thy thunders roll ! 
ITow, Vengeance, smile — and with a blow, 
Lay the rebellious ingrate low. 

Yet Jesus, Jesus ! there I'll cling, 
I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing ; 
I'll clasp the cross, and holding there. 
Even me, oh bliss ! — his wrath may spare. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 165 



MELODY. 



Inserted in a collection of selected and original Songs, published by the 
Rev. J. Plumptre, of Clare Hall, Cambridge. 

I. 

Yes, once more tliat dying strain, 

Anna, touch thy lute for me ; 
Sweet, when pity's tones complain, 

Doubly sweet is melody. 

II. 

"While the Virtues thus inweave 

Mildly soft the thrilhng song, 
Winter's long and lonesome eve, 

Olides unfelt, unseen along. 

III. 

Thus when life hath stolen away. 

And the wintiy night is near ; 
Thus shall Virtue's friendly ray. 

Age's closing evening cheer. 



SO¥G. 

BY WALLER. 



A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the author, and when he re- 
turned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by him at 
the bottom of the song here copied. 

Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows. 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 



166 POEMS OF 

Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee ; 
How small a part of time they share, 
That are so wondrous, sweet, and fair, 



[Yet, though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 

And teach the maid. 
That goodness Time's rude hand defies, 
That virtue lives when beauty dies.] 

H. K„ White. 



a 



AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD." 

I. 
When twilight steals along the ground, 
And all the bells are ringing round, 

One, two, three, four, and five ; 
I at my study window sit. 
And wrapt in many a musing fit, 

To bliss am all alive. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1^5^ 

II. 

But though impressions calm and sweet, 
Thrill round my heart a holy heat, 

And I am inly glad ; 
The tear-drop stands in either eye. 
And yet I cannot tell thee why, 

I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. 



III. 

The silvery rack that flies away, 
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray. 

Does that disturb my breast ? 
^Nay, what have I, a studious man, 
To do with life's unstable plan. 

Or pleasure's fading vest ? 



IV. 

Is it that here I must not stojD, 
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top 

Must bend my lonely way ? 
IN'ow, surely no, for give but me 
My own fireside, and I shall be 

At home where'er I stray. 



:'? 



V. 

Then is it that yon steeple there. 
With music sweet shall fill the air, 

"When thou no more canst hear ? 
Oh no ! oh no ! for then forgiven, 
I shall be with my God in heaven, 

Released from every fear. 



108 POEMS OF 

VI. 

Then whence it is I cannot tell, 
But there is some mysterious spell 

That holds me when I'm glad ; 
And so the tear-drop fills my eye, 
When vet in truth I know not why, 

Or wherefore I am sad. 



SOLITUDE. 

It is not that my lot is low. 
That hids this silent tear to flow ; 
It is not grief that bids me moan, 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam, 
When the tired hedger hies him home, 
Or by the woodland pool to rest, 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet when the silent evening sighs, 
With hallowed airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sere and dead. 
It floats upon the water's bed; 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 

The woods and winds, with sudden wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 160 

I've none to smile when I am free, 
And when I sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view, 
That thinks on me and loves me too ; 
I start, and when the vision's flown, 
I weep that I am all alone. 



If far from me the Fates remove 
Domestic jDeace, connuhial love ; 
The prattling ring, the social cheer, 
Aifection's voice, affection's tear; 
Ye sterner powers that bind the heart. 
To me your iron aid impart ! 

teach me, when the nights are chill. 
And my fireside is lone and still ; 
"Wlien to the blaze that crackles near, 

1 turn a tired and pensive ear. 

And nature conquering bids me sigh. 
For love's soft accents whispering nigh ; 

teach me on that heavenly road. 
That leads to Truth's occult abode. 
To wrap my soul in dreams sublime. 
Till earth and care no more be mine. 
Let blest Philosophy impart, 

Her soothing measures to my heart ; 
And while, with Plato's ravished ears, 

1 list the music of the spheres ; 
Or on the mystic symbols pore. 
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore ; 
I shall not brood on summers gone, 
Nor think that I am all alone. 



I'O POEMS OF 

Fanny ! upon tliy breast I ma}^ not lie ! 

Fanny ! tliou dost not hear me when I speak ! 
^A^ere art thou, love ? — Around I turn my eye, 

And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. 
Was it a dream ? or did my love behold 

Indeed my lonely couch ? — Methought the breath 
Fanned not her bloodless lip ; her eye was cold 

And hollow, and the livery of death 
Invested her pale forehead. — Sainted maid, 

My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, 

Throusrh the Ions: wintiT nisrht, when wind and wave 
Eock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. 
Yet hush ! my fond heart, hush ! there is a shore 

Of better promise ; and I know at last, 

When the long sabbath of the tomb is past. 
We two shall meet in Christ — to part no more. 



YEESES. 

Thou base repiner at another's joy, 

Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own ; 
Oh far away from generous Britons fly. 
And find in meaner climes a fitter throne ! 
Away, away, it shall not be. 

That thou shalt dare defile our plains ; 
The truly generous heart disdains 
Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he 
Joys at another's joy, and smiles at others' jollity. 

Triumphant monster ! — though thy schemes succeed. 

Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night. 
Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed. 

Thy happy victim will emerge to light ; 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



171 



^Vlien o'er liis head in silence that reposes, 
Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear, 

Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, 

^Tiich thou hadst planted with the thorn severe ; 

Then will thv baseness stand confessed, and all 

Will curse the ungenerous fate that bade a poet fall. 

:)f. -ifi if. % if. if. if. 

Yet ah ! thy sorrows are too keen, too sure ! 

Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey ? 
Alas ! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, 

TVho only boast what thou wouldst take awav. 
See the lone bard at midnicrht study sittinsf ; 

O'er his pale features streams his dpng lamp ; 
Wliile o'er fond fancy's pale perspective flitting, 

Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. 
Tet, say, is bliss upon his brow impressed ? 

Does jocund health in thought's still mansion live ? 
Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest. 

That short quick sigh — their sad responses give I 
And canst thou rob a poet of his song ; 

Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise ? 
Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long ; 

Then leave, leave him to enjoy his lays 
"WTiile yet he Hves, — for, to his merits just. 

Though future ages join his fame to raise, 
Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust ? 



EPIGEA^I OX EOBERT BL00:MFIELD. 

Bloomfield, thy happy omened name 
Insures continuance to thv fame : 
Both sense and truth this verdict give, 
Whilst fields shall bloom thv name shall live. 



1'2 POEMS OP 



FEAGMEXTS. 



These fragments are the author's latest compositions ; and were, for the most 
part, written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the few 
moments of the last year of his life, in which he suffered himself to follow 
the impulse of his genius. 

I. 

''Saw'st thou tliat liglit?" exclaimed tlie youth, and 

paused ; 
" Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream 
That skirts the woods, it for a moment played. 
Again, more light it gleamed, — or does some sprite 
Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams. 
And lamp far heaming through the thicket's gloom, 
As from some bosomed cabin, where the voice 
Of revehy, or thrifty watchfulness. 
Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour? 
No sprite deludes mine eyes, — the beam now glows 
With steady lustre. — Can it be the moon. 
Who, hidden long by the invidious veil 
That blots the heavens, now sets behind the woods ?" — 
"No moon to-night has looked upon the sea 
Of clouds beneath her," answered Eudiger, 
" She has been sleeping with Endymion." 



II. 



The pious man, 
In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms. 
Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith 



HEXRY KIR KE WHITE. 173 

Above the clouds that threat him, to the fiehls 
Of ether, where the day is never veiled 
With intervening vapors ; and looks down 
Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides 
The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face 
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all ; 
But on whose billowy back, from man concealed 
The glaring sunbeam plays. 



III. 



Lo ! on the eastern summit, clad in gray. 
Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, come* 
And from his tower of mist, 
!N^ight's watchman hurries down. 



IV. 



There was a little bird upon that pile ; 

It perched upon a ruined pinnacle, 

And made sweet melody. 

The song was soft, yet cheerftil, and most clear, 

For other note none swelled the air but his. 

It seemed as if the little chorister. 

Sole tenant of the melancholy pile. 

Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind. 

Yet withal cheerful. — I have heard the note 

Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, 

Much musing — 



174 POEMS OF 

V. 

PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint 

Thy melancholy ray : 
When the still night's unclouded saint 

Is walking on her way. 
Through my lattice leaf embowered, 
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam ; 
And o'er my silent sacred room, 
Casts a chequered twilight gloom ; 
I throw aside the learned sheet, 

1 cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. 
Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, 

Or why am I so frail ? 

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me. Moon, 

And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards ! 
Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak 

Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd ; 
So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud 
Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far 
From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. 



VI. 

GIVE me music — for my soul doth faint ; 

I am sick of noise and care, and now mine ear 
Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, 

That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. 

Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along. 
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, 

"When all is still ; and now it grows more strong. 
As when the choral train their dirges weave. 



HENKY KIRKE WHITE. 1'5 

Mellow and many-voiced ; where every close, 
O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. 

Oh ! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars 

Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. 

Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores. 
And floating pseans fill the buoyant wind. 

Farewell ! base earth, farewell ! my soul is freed, 

Far from its clayey cell it springs, — 
* * * * 



VII. 

Ah ! who can say, however fair his view, 
Through what sad scenes his path may lie ? 
Ah ! who can give to others' woes his sigh. 

Secure his own will never need it too ! 

Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, 
Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye. 
The illusive past and dark futurity ; 

Soon will they know — 



VIII. 

And must thou go, and must we part ! 

Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit ; 
The pang that rends in twain my heart, 

Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it ? 

Thy sex is fickle, — ^^vhen away, 

Some happier youth may win thy — 



I'^S POEMS OF 



IX. 

SONNET. 



"When I sit musing on the chequered past, 
(A term much darkened with untimely woes,) 
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still fiows 
The tear, though half disowned ; — and hinding fast 
Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, 
I say to her she robbed me of my rest. 
When that was all my wealth. — 'Tis true my breast 
Received from her this wearying lingering smart ; 
Yet ah ! I cannot bid her form depart ; 

Though wronged, I love her — yet in anger love, 
For she was most unworthy. — Then I prove 
Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, 
Throned in dark clouds, inflexible * * * 
The native pride of my much injured heart. 



X. 

When high romance o'er every wood and stream, 

Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire ; 
Spell-struck, and filled with many a wondering dream, 

First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. 
All there was mystery then, the gust that woke 

The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge ; 
And unseen fairies would the moon invoke. 

To their light morrice by the restless surge. 
]^ow to my sobered thought with life's false smiles. 

Too much * * * 
The vagrant, Fancy, spreads no more her wiles, 

And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. 



HENRY KIKKE WHITE. 177 

XI. 

Hushed is the lyre — the hand that swept 
The low and pensive wires, 
Eobbed of its cunning, from the task retires. 

Yes — it is still — the lyre is still ; 

The spirit which its slumbers broke, 

Hath passed away,— and that weak hand that woke 
Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. 
Yet I would press you to my lips once more. 

Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy ; 
Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, 

Mixed with decaying odors ; for to me 

Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, 

As in the wood-paths of my native — 
* * * * 



XII. 

Once more, and yet once more, 

I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay ; 
I heard the waters roar, 

I heard the flood of ages pass away. 
thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell 

In thine eternal cell, 
N"oting, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 

I saw thee rise,— I saw the scroll complete, 

Thou spakest, and at thy feet, 
The universe gave way. 



FRAGMEE'T. 

Loud rage the winds without.— The wintry cloud 
O'er the cold north star casts her fitting shroud; 

12 



178 POEMS OF 

And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, 
Starts as slie hears, by fits, the shrieking gale ; 
Where now, shut out from every still retreat, 
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, 
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, 
Eetire, o'er all her pensive stores to brood ? 
Shivering and blue, the peasant eyes askance 
The drifted fleeces that around him dance ; 
And hurries on his half-averted form. 
Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. 
Him soon shall greet his snow-topped [cot of thatch]. 
Soon shall his 'numbed hand tremble on the latch ; 
Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame 
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame. 
Eound the light fire, while roars the north wind loud, 
What merry groups of vacant faces crowd ; 
These hail his coming — these his meal prepare, 
And boast in all that cot no lurking care. 

What, though the social circle be denied, 
Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside ; 
Loves, with fixed eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, 
While musing Memory dwells on former days ; 
Or Hope, blessed spirit! smiles — and, still forgiven, 
Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. 
Then heap the fire — shut out the biting air. 
And from its station wheel the easy chair : 
Thus fenced and warm, in silence fit, 'tis sweet 
To hear withoufthe bitter tempest beat, 
And, all alone, to sit, and muse, and sigh. 
The pensive tenant of obscurity. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1'9 



VEESES. 

When pride and envy, and tlie scorn 
Of wealth, my lieart witli gall imbued, 

I tlionglit how pleasant were the morn 
Of silence in the solitude ; 

To hear the forest bee on wing ; 

Or by the stream, or woodland spring. 

To lie and muse alone — alone, 

Wliile the tinkling waters moan, 

Or such wild sounds arise, as say, 

Man and noise are far away. 

]^ow, surely, thought I, there's enow 

To fill life's dusty way ; 
And who will miss a poet's feet, 

Or wonder where he stray ? 
So to the woods and waste I'll go. 

And I will build an osier bower ; 
And sweetly there to me shall flow 

The meditative hour. 

And when the Autumn's withering hand 

Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, 

I'll to the forest caverns hie : 

And in the dark and stormy nights 

I'll listen to the shrieking sprites. 

Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, 

Keep jubilee, and shred the woods ; 

Or, as it drifted soft and slow, 

Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. 
* * * * 



180 POEMS OF ♦ 



0^ WHIT-MO:^TDAY. 

Hark ! how the merry bells ring jocund round, 
And now they die upon the veering breeze ; 

Anon they thunder loud, 

Full on the musins: ear. 

Wafted in varying cadence by the shore 
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak 

A day of jubilee — 

An ancient holy day. 

And lo ! the rural revels are begun, 
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, 

On the smooth shaven green 

Resounds the voice of Mirth. 

Alas ! regardless of the tongue of Fate 

That tells them 'tis but as an hour, since they 

Who now are in their graves 

Kept up the Whitsun dance ; 

And that another hour, and they must fall 
Like those who went before, and sleep as still 

Beneath the silent sod, 

A cold and cheerless sleep. 

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare 
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign 

To smile upon us here, 

A transient visitor ? 

Mortals ! be gladsome while ye have the power, 
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy ; 

In time the bell will toll 

That warns ye to your graves. 



• henry KIR KE WHITE. 181 

I to the woodland solitude will bend 

My lonesome way, where Mirth's obstreperous shout 

Shall not intrude to break 

The meditative hour. 

There will I ponder on the state of man, 
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate 

This day of jubilee 

To sad Eeflection's shrine ; 

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond 
This world of care, to where the steeple loud 

Shall rock above the sod, 

Where I shall sleep in peace. 



0:^" THE DEATH OF DERMODY, THE POET. 

Child of misfortune ! offspring of the Muse ! 
Mark like the meteor's gleam, his mad career ; 
With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, 
Behold, he shrieking passes by ; 

I see, I see him near : 
That hollow scream, that deepening groan ; 
It rings u]Don mine ear. 

Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, 
Who clasp the siren Pleasure to your breast ; 
Behold the wreck of Genius here ; 
And drop, oh drop the silent tear 

For Dermody at rest ; 
His fate is yours, then from your loins 
Tear quick the silken vest. 



182 POEMS OF • 

Saw' St thou his dying bed ! Saw'st thou his eye, 
Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil ; 
How ghastly did it seem ; 
And then his dying scream ; 

Oh God! I hear it still: 
It soimds upon my fainting sense, 
It strikes with deathly chill. 

Say, didst thou mark the brilhant poet's death ; 
Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed. 
Or pitying friends around him stand ? 
Or didst thou see a mother's hand 

Support his languid head ? 
Oh none of these— no friend o'er him 
The balm of pity shed. 

Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, 
Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low ; 
E'ow come around who pant for fame. 
And learn from hence, a poet's name 

Is purchased but by woe ; 
And when ambition prompts to rise. 
Oh think of him below. 

For me, poor moralizer, I will run. 
Dejected, to some solitary state : 
The Muse has set her seal on me. 
She set her seal on Dermody, 

It is the seal of fate : 
In some lone spot my bones may lie. 
Secure from human hate. 

Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, 

"Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head : 
May peace her banners o'er him wave ; 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 183 

For me in my deserted grave 

^o friend a tear shall slied : 
Yet may tlie lily and the rose 

Bloom on my grassy bed. 



THE WOKDEPxFUL JUGGLER. 

A SONG. 

Come all ye true hearts, who, old England to save, 
]^ow shoulder the musket, or j^lough the rough wave, 
I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, 
Who has ruined Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. 

Derry down, down, high derry down. 

This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, 

But, like Atlas, he stalks ^^dth the world at his back ; 

'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns ; 

Some say they are cousins ; we know he wears horns. 

Derry down. 

At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he ? 
He hopped o'er an army, he skipped o'er the sea; 
And he jumped from the desk of a village attorney 
To the throne of the Bourbons — a pretty long journey. 

Derry down. 

He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball. 
And his cup is so fashioned it catches them all ; 
The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare 
His skill at the long bow has made them both stare. 

Derry down. 



184 POEMS OF 

He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain ; 
And Germany too knows his legerdemain ; 
So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights, 
He's coming to London to put us to rights. 

Derry down. 

To encourage his puppets to venture this trip, 
He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship ; 
With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far. 
It can silence the broadsides of three men of war. 

Derry down. 

This new Katterfelto, his show to complete. 
Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet ; 
Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on, 
They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton. 

Derry down. 

If this project should fail, he has others in store ; 
"Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er ; 
Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells) 
May order balloons, or provide diving bells. 

Derry down. 

"When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, 
Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader ; 
But how to greet Bonny she never will know, 
If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow. 

Derry down. 

Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas. 
That his boats have not room to go down when they please. 
Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over, 
And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover. 

Derry down. 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 185 

How welcome he'll be, it were needless to say ; 
^'either he nor his puppets shall e'er go away ; 
I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick, 
Till we know he has played off his very last trick. 

Derry down, down, high deny down. 



SOITNET TO MY MOTHER. 

And canst thou. Mother, for a moment think 
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed 
Its blanching honors on thy weary head, 

Could from our best of duties ever shrink ? 

Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink 
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, 
To pine in solitude thy life away. 

Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. 

Banish the thought ! — where'er our steps may roam, 
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree. 
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, 

And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home ; 
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage. 
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. 



SOlSnSTET. 



Sweet to the gay of heart is summer's smile. 
Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring ; 

But ah ! my soul far other scenes beguile. 

Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. 



186 POEMS OF 

Is it for me to strike the Idalian string — 
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, 

While in my ears the howls of furies ring, 
And melancholy wastes the vital fire ? 

Away with thoughts like these. To some lone cave 
"Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the 
wave, 

Direct my steps ; there, in the lonely drear, 
I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse 
Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse. 

And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. 



SOCKET. 

Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts — 

Bleak blows the blast — now howls — then faintly dies- 
And oft upon its awful wrings it wafts 

The dying w^anderer's distant, feeble cries. 
'Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt horror stalks. 

And midnight hags their damned vigils hold. 
The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks. 

And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold. 
Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes, 

Insensible to every outward ill ; 
Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes. 

And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill. 
Ah ! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore. 
Which gnaws his heart and bids him hope no more. 



UENRY KIRKE WHITE. 187 



TIME. 

A POEM. 

This poem was begun either daring the publication of Clifton Grove, or 
shortly afterwards. The author never laid aside the intention of completing 
it, and some of the detached parts were among his latest productions. 

Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour 

Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild. 

Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, 

Thy dark eye fixed as in some holy trance ; 

Or, when the volleyed lightnings cleave the air, 

And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, 

Sitt'st in some lonely watch-tower — where thy lamp. 

Faint-blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far. 

And 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved 

Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace, 

The vast effect to its superior source, — 

Spirit, attend my lowly benison ! 

For now I strike to themes of import high 

The solitary lyre ; and borne by thee 

Above this narrow cell, I celebrate 

The mysteries of Time ! 

Him who, august. 
Was ere these worlds were fashioned, — ere the sun 
Sprang from the east, or Lucifer displayed 
His glowing cresset on the arch of morn. 
Or Yesper gilded the serener eve. 
Yea, He had been for an eternity ! 
Had swept unvarying from eternity 
The harp of desolation, — ere his tones 
At God's command, assumed a milder strain. 



188 POEMS OF 

And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, 
Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evoked 
From the dark void the smiling universe. 

Chained to the grovelling frailties of the flesh 

Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, 

Cannot survey, with fixed and steady eye, 

The dim uncertain gulf, which now the Muse 

Adventurous, would explore ; — ^iDut dizzy grown, 

He topples down the abyss. — ^If he would scan 

The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse 

Of its unfathomable depths, that so. 

His mind may turn with double joy to God, 

His only certainty and resting place ; 

He must put ofi:' a while this mortal vest, 

And learn to follow, without giddiness. 

To heights where all is vision, and surprise. 

And vague conjecture. — He must waste by night 

The studious taper, far from all resort 

Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat ; 

High on the beetling promontory's crest, 

Or in the caves of the vast wilderness. 

Where compassed round with nature's wildest shapes, 

He may be driven to centre all his thoughts 

In the great Architect, who lives confest 

In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes. 

So has divine Philosophy, with voice 
Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, 
Tutored the heart of him, who now awakes, 
Touching the cords of solemn minstrelsy. 
His faint, neglected song — intent to snatch 
Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep 
Of poesy, a bloom of such an hue, 




Me-n^r^ ,yV~u/j7U's 772y ?ms Cress, a/zd /?iy C/'w/m 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 189 

So sober, as may not unseemly snit 

With Truth's severer brow ; and one withal 

So hardy as shall brave the passing wind 

Of many winters, — rearing its meek head 

In loveliness, when he who gathered it 

Is numbered with the generations gone. 

Yet not to me hath God's good providence 

Given studious leisure,* or unbroken thought, 

Sach as he owns, — a meditative man. 

Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve 

Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er. 

Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din ; 

From noise and wranghng far, and undisturbed 

With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day 

Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 

Of steadfast application, but which leave 

1^0 deep improving trace upon the mind. 

But be the day another's ; — let it pass ! 

The night's my own !— They cannot steal my night ! 

When Evening lights her folding-star on high, 

I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours 

Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies, 

Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, 

And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven. 

Hence do I love the sober-suited maid ; 

Hence Wight's my friend, my mistress, and my theme, 

And she shall aid me now to magnify 

The night of ages,— now when the pale ray 

Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom. 

And at my window seated,— while mankind 

Are locked in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze 

Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, 

* The author was then in an attorney's office. 



190 POEMS OF 

Thought^ like a wakeful vestal at her slirine, 
Assumes her wonted sway. 

Behold the world 
Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused 
From trouble and turmoil. The widow now 
Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie 
Locked in each arm, partakers of her rest. 
The man of sorrow has forgot his woes ; 
The outcast that his head is shelterless, 
His griefs unshared. — The mother tends no more 
Her daughter's dying slumbers, but, surprised 
With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch. 
Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lulled 
On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapt. 
Crowning with hope's bland wreath his shuddering 

nurse. 
Poor victim ! smiles. — Silence and deep repose 
Eeign o'er the nations ; — and the warning voice 
Of nature utters audibly within 
The general moral : — tells us that repose, 
Deathlike as this, but of far longer span. 
Is coming on us — that the weary crowds 
"Who now enjoy a temporary calm. 
Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapt around 
"With grave-clothes ; and their aching, restless heads 
Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved. 
Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. 

"Who needs a teacher to admonish him 
That flesh is grass ? — That earthly things are mist ? 
What are our joys but dreams ? and what our hopes 
But goodly shadows in a summer cloud ? 
There's not a wind that blows but bears with it 
Some rainbow promise : — '^oi a moment flies 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 191 

But puts its sickle in tlie fields of life, 

And mows its thousands, witli their joys and cares. * 

'Tis but as yesterday since on yon stars, 

Whicli now I view, the Chaldee shepherd"^ gazed, 

In his mid- watch observant, and disposed 

The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 

Yet in the interim what mighty shocks 

Have buffeted mankind, — whole nations razed, — 

Cities made desolate, — ^the polished sunk 

To barbarism, and once barbaric states 

Swaying the wand of science and of arts ; 

Illustrious deeds and memorable names 

Blotted from record, and upon the tongue 

Of gray tradition voluble no more. 

Where are the heroes of the ages past ? 

Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones 

Who flourished in the infancy of days ? 

All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame 

Exulting, mocking at the pride of man. 

Sits grim Forgetfulness. — The warrior's arm 

Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; 

Hushed is his stormy voice, and quenched the blaze 

Of his red eyeball. — Yesterday his name 

Was mighty on the earth. — To-da}^ — 'tis what ? 

The meteor of the night of distant years. 

That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld. 

Musing at midnight upon prophecies, 

Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam 

Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly 

Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up 

Safe in the charnel's treasures. 

* Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by the Chaldean 
shepherds. 



192 POEMS OF 

liow weak . 
Is mortal man ! how trifling — ^how confined 
His scope of vision. Pufi:ed with confidence, 
His phrase grows big with immortality, 
And he, poor insect of a summer's day, 
Dreams of eternal honors to his name ; 
Of endless glory and perennial bays. 
He idly reasons of eternity. 
As of the train of ages, — when, alas ! 
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries 
Are, in comparison a little point. 
Too trivial for accompt. — it is strange, 
Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies ; 
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, 
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies. 
And smile and say my name shall live with this 
Till Time shall be no more ; while at his feet, 
Yea, at his very feet the crumbling dust 
Of the fallen fabric of the other day. 
Preaches the solemn lesson. — He should know. 
That time must conquer. That the loudest blast 
That ever filled Renown's obstreperous trump, 
Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. 
Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom 
Of the gigantic pyramid ? or who 
Reared its huge walls ! Oblivion laughs and says. 
The prey is mine. — They sleep, and never more 
Their names shall strike upon the ear of man. 
Their memory burst its fetters. 

Where is Eome f 
She lives but in the tale of other times ; 
Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home ; 
And her long colonnades, her public walks, 
ISTow faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet 




/-. /// 



^//^■//.j ,//// 



HENRY KIRKE AVHITE. 193 

Wlio comes to muse in solitude, and trace, 
Through the rank moss revealed, her honored dust. 
But not to Rome alone has fate confined 
The doom of ruin; cities numberless. 
Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, 
And rich Phoenicia — ^they are blotted out, 
Half-razed from memory, and their very name 
And being in dispute. — Has Athens fallen ? 
Is polished Greece become the savage seat 

Of ignorance and sloth ? and shall we dare 

* * * * 

And empire seeks another hemisphere. 

Where now is Britain ? — ^Where her laurelled names. 

Her palaces and halls. Dashed in the dust. 

Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride. 

And with one big recoil hath thrown her back 

To primitive barbarity. — Again, 

Through her depopulated vales, the scream 

Of bloody superstition hollow rings, 

And the scarred native to the tempest howls 

The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts 

Her crowded ports, broods Silence ; and the cry 

Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash 

Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. 

Even as the savage sits upon the stone 

That marks where stood her capitals, and hears 

The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks 

From the dismaying solitude. — Her bards 

Sing in a language that hath perished ; 

And their mid harps, suspended o'er their graves, 

Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. 

Meanwhile the arts, in second infancy, 

Rise in some distant clime and then perchance 

13 



19^ 



POEMS OF 



Some bold adventurer, filled witli golden dreams, 
Steering liis bark tlirougli trackless solitudes, 
Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow 
Hath ever ploughed before, — espies the cliffs 
Of fallen Albion. — To the land unknown 
He journeys joyful; and perhaps descries 
Some vestige of her ancient stateliness ; 
Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind 
Of the unheard of race, which had arrived 
At science in that solitary nook, 
Far from the civil world : and sagely sighs 
And moralizes on the state of man. 

Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt. 

Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, 

And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. 

We have our spring-time and our rottenness ; 

And as we fall, another race succeeds 

To perish likewise. — Meanwhile nature smiles — 

The seasons run their round — the sun fulfils 

His annual course — and heaven and earth remain 

Still changing, yet unchanged — still doomed to feel 

Endless mutation in perpetual rest. 

Where are concealed the days which have elapsed ? 

Hid in the mighty cavern oi the past, 

They rise upon us only to appal. 

By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, 

Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 

Oh it is fearful, on the midnight couch. 

When the rude rushing winds forget to rave. 

And the pale moon, that through the casement high 

Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour 

Of utter silence, it is fearful then 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 105 

To steer the mind, in deadly solitude, 

Up the vague stream of prohability : 

To wind the mighty secrets of the j^cist, 

And turn the key of time ! — Oh who can strive 

To comprehend the vast, the awful truth. 

Of the eternity that hath gone hy^ 

And not recoil from the dismaying sense 

Of human impotence ? The life of man 

Is summed in birth-days and in sepulchres ; 

But the Eternal God had no beginning ; 

He hath no end. Time had been with him 

For everlasting, ere the daedal world 

Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him 

It knew no source, like him 'twas nncreate. 

What was it then ? The past Eternity ! 

We comprehend Si future without end ; 

We feel it possible that even yon sun 

May roll for ever ; but we shrink amazed — 

We stand aghast, when we reflect that Time 

Knew no commencement. — That heap age on age, 

And million upon million, without end. 

And we shall never span the void of days 

That were, and are not but in retrospect. 

The Past is an unfathomable depth. 

Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse 

Which hath no mensuration, but hath been 

Forever and forever. 

Change of days 
To us is sensible ; and each revolve 
Of the recording sun conducts us on 
Further in life, and nearer to our goal. 
IN'ot so with Time, — mysterious chronicler, 
He knoweth not mutation ; — centuries 
Are to his being as a day, and days 



196 POEMS OF 

As centuries. — Time past, and Time to come, 
Are always equal ; wlien the world began 
God had existed from eternity. 

3^ ^C 5|i ^i ?(» 

Now look on man 
Myriads of ages hence. — Hath time elapsed ! 
Is he not standing in the self-same place 
"Where once we stood ! — The same Eternity 
Hath gone before him, and is yet to come : 
His past is not of longer span than ours, 
Though myriads of ages intervened ; 
For who can add to what has neither sum, 
l^or bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end ! 
Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind ? 
Who can unlock the secrets of the High ? 
In speculations of an altitude. 
Sublime as this, our reason stands confest 
Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. 
Who can apply the futile argument 
Of finite beings to infinity ? 
He might as well compress the universe 
Into the hollow compass of a gourd. 
Scooped out by human art ; or bid the whale 
Drink up the sea it swims in. — Can the less 
Contain the greater ? or the dark obscure 
Infold the glories of meridian day ? 
Wliat does philosophy impart to man 
But undiscovered wonders ? — Let her soar 
Even to her proudest heights, — to where she caught 
The soul of ISTewton and of Socrates, 
She but extends the scope of wild amaze 
And admiration. All her lessons end 
In wider views of God's unfathomed depths. 



HENRY KI EKE WHITE. 197 

Lo ! the unlettered hind who never knew 

To raise his mind excursive, to the heights 

Of abstract contemplation ; as he sits 

On the green hillock by the hedgerow side, 

"What time the insect swarms are murmurino-, 

And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds 

That fringe, with loveliest hues, the evening sky. 

Feels in his soul the hand of nature rouse 

The thrill of gratitude, to him who formed 

The goodly prospect ; he beholds the God 

Throned in the west ; and his reposing ear 

Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze. 

That floats through neighboring copse or fairy brake, 

Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. 

Go with the cotter to his winter fire. 

Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill. 

And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon ; 

Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar, 

Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him bless 

The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds 

For his snug hearth, and all his little joys. 

Hear him compare his happier lot with his 

Wlio bends his way across the wintry wolds, 

A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow 

Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path. 

He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, 

He hears some village mastifi*'s distant howl, 

And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light; 

Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, 

And clasps his shivering hands ; or, overpowered. 

Sinks on the frozen ground, weighed down with sleep. 

From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 

Thus the poor rustic warms his heart w^ith praise 

And glowing gratitude,— he turns to bless. 



198 P E M S F 

Witli honest warmth, his Maker and his God. 

And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, 

N^ursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred, 

In want and labor, glows with nobler zeal 

To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 

Whom starry science in her cradle rocked. 

And Castaly enchastened with its dews. 

Closes his eyes upon the holy word ; 

And, bhnd to all but arrogance and pride, 

Dares to declare his infidelity, 

And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts ! 

What is philosophy, if it impart 

Irreverence for the Deity — or teach 

A mortal man to set his judgment up 

Against his Maker's will ? — The Polygar, 

Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him 

Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys. 

Is the most blessed of men ! — Oh ! I would walk 

A weary journey to the furthest verge 

Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, 

Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art. 

Preserves a lowly mind ; and to his God, 

Feeling the sense of his own littleness, 

Is as a child in meek simplicity ! 

What is the pomp of learning ? the parade 

Of letters and of tongues ? E'en as the mists 

Of the gray morn before the rising sun. 

That pass away and perish. 

Earthly things 
Are but the transient pageants of an hour ; 
And earthly pride is like the passing flower. 
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 
'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud, 
Baseless and silly as the school-boy's dream. 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 399 

Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, 

And then record its downfall, what are they 

But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? 

Hath Heaven its ages ; or doth Heaven preserve 

Its stated ?eras ? Doth the Omnipotent 

Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays ? 

There is to God nor future nor a past : 

Throned in his might, all times to him are present ; 

He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come ; 

He sees before him one eternal noiv. 

Time moveth not ! — our being 'tis that moves ; 

And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream. 

Dream of swift ages and revolving years, 

Ordained to chronicle our passing days : 

So the young sailor in the gallant bark. 

Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast 

Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while. 

Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, 

And that the land is sailing. 

Such, alas ! 
Are the illusions of this proteus life ! 
All, all is false. — Through every phasis still 
'Tis shadowy and deceitful. — It assumes 
The semblances of things, and specious shapes ; 
But the lost traveller might as soon rely 
On the evasive spirit of the marsh. 
Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits. 
O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow-way, 
As we on its appearances. 

On earth 
There is nor certainty, nor stable hope. 
As well the weary mariner, whose bark 
Is tossed beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, 
Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, 



200 POEMS OF 

And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust 

To expectation of serener skies, 

And linger in the very jaws of death, 

Because some peevish cloud were opening, 

Or the loud storm had 'bated in its rage ; 

As we look forward in this vale of tears 

To permanent delight — from some slight glimpse 

Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness. 

The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond 

The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep 

Of mortal desolation. — He beholds. 

Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 

Of rampant ruin, or the unstable waves 

Of dark vicissitude. — Even in death. 

In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang, 

Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, 

The immortal spirit struggles to be free. 

Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not. 

For it exists beyond the narrow verge 

Of the cold sepulchre. — The petty joys 

Of fleeting life indignantly it spurned, 

And rested on the bosom of its God. 

This is man's only reasonable hope : 

And 'tis a hope which, cherished in the breast, 

Shall not be disappointed. — Even He, 

The Holy One — Almighty — who elanced 

The rolling world along its airy way ; 

Even He will deign to smile upon the good. 

And welcome him to these celestial seats. 

Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. 

Thou proud man, look upon yon starry vault. 
Survey the countless gems which richly stud 
The night's imperial chariot ; — telescopes 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 201 

Will show tliee myriads more, innnmerous 

As the sea-sand ; — each of those little lamps 

Is the great source of light, the central sun 

Eound which some other mighty sisterhood 

Of planets travel, — every planet stocked 

With living heings impotent as thee. 

^ow, proud man — now, where is thy greatness fled ? 

What art thou in the scale of universe ? 

Less, less than nothing ! — Yet of thee the God 

Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful. 

As well as of the mendicant who begs 

The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou 

Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn 

His heavenly providence ! Deluded fool, 

Even now the thunderbolt is winged with death, 

Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. 

How insignificant is mortal man. 
Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour ! 
How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit 
Of infinite duration, boundless space ! 
God of the universe — Almighty One — 
Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, 
Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer. 
Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, 
Eldest from pole to pole ; — Thou who dost hold 
The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp. 
And reinest-in the earthquake, when thy wrath 
Goes down towards erring man, — I would address 
To thee my parting psean ; for of thee. 
Great beyond comprehension, who thyself 
Art time and space, sublime infinitude, 
Of thee has been my song ! — ^With awe I kneel 
Trembling before the footstool of thy state, 



202 POEMS OF 

My God, my Fatlier ! — I will sing to tliee 

A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle, 

Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades 

The throne of Death, I hang my momnifal lyre, 

And give its wild strings to the desert gale. 

Rise, son of Salem, rise, and join the strain, 

Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp. 

And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul 

To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, 

And hallelujah, for the Lord is great. 

And full of mercy ! He has thought of man ; 

Yea, compassed round with countless worlds, has thought 

Of we poor worms, that hatten in the dews 

Of morn, and perish ere the noonday sun. 

Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful ; 

He gave the ]!*^uhian lion but to live. 

To rage its hour and perish ; but on man 

He lavished immortality, and heaven. 

The eagle falls from her aerial tower. 

And mingles with irrevocable dust ; 

But man from death springs joyful. 

Springs up to life and to eternity. 

Oh that, insensate of the favoring boon, 

The great exclusive privilege bestowed 

On us unworthy trifles, men should dare 

To treat with slight regard the proiFered heaven. 

And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear 

In wrath, '' They shall not enter in my rest !" 

Might I address the supplicative strain 

To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou 

Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers. 

And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. 

Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, 

Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 203 

Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin, 
And paid, with bitter agony, the debt 
Of primitive transgression. 

Oh ! I shrink. 
My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect 
That the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed. 
Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate 
On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels 
Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, 
And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start 
At the appalling summons. Oh ! how dread 
On the dark eye of miserable man, 
Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom. 
Will burst the eftulgence of the opening heaven ; 
When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar. 
Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, 
Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word ! 
The dead shall start astonished from their sleep ! 
The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey. 
The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge 
Of human victims. — From the fiirthest nook 
Of the wide world shall troop the risen souls. 
From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste 
Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse. 
Whelmed in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, 
Is washed on some Caribbean prominence. 
To the lone tenant of some secret cell 
In the Pacific's vast * * * realm. 
Where never plummet's sound was heard to part 
The wilderness of water ; they shall come 
To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. 

Thou first shall summon the elected saints 
To their apportioned heaven ; and thy Son, 



204 POEMS OF 

At thy right hand shall smile with conscious joy 

On all his past distresses, when for them 

He bore humanity's severest pangs. 

Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar, 

And, with a roar as loud and horrible 

As the stern earthquake's monitory voice. 

The wicked shall be driven to their abode, 

Down the unmitigable gulf, to wail 

And gnash their teeth in endless agony. 
* * * * 

Eear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit rear 

Thy flag on high ! — Invincible, and throned 

In unparticipated might. Behold 

Earth's proudest boast, beneath thy silent sway. 

Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while. 

Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush 

Of mighty generations, as they pass 

To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp 

Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. 

"Who shall contend with Time — unvanquished Time, 

The conqueror of conquerors, and lord 

Of desolation ? — ^Lo ! the shadows fly. 

The hours and days, and years and centuries, 

They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall. 

The young are old, the old are in their graves. 

Heardst thou that shout ? It rent the vaulted skies ; 

It was the voice of people, — mighty crowds, — 

Again ! 'tis hushed — Time speaks, and all is hushed ; 

In the vast multitude now reigns alone 

Unrufiled solitude. They all are still ; 

All — yea, the whole — the incalculable mass, 

Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. 

Rear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit rear 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 205 

Thy flag on liigli ; and glory in thy strength. 
But do thou know, the season yet shall come, 
When from its base thine adamantine throne 
Shall tumble ; when thine arm shall cease to strike, 
Thy voice forget its petrifying power ; 
"When saints shall shout, and Time shall he no more. 
Yea he doth come — the mighty champion comes, 
Wliose potent spear shall give thee thy death-wound. 
Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors. 
And desolate stern desolation's lord. 
Lo ! where he cometh ! the Messiah comes ! 
The King ! the Comforter ! the Christ ! — He comes 
To burst the bonds of death, and overturn 
The power of Time. — Hark ! the trumpet's blast 
Rings o'er the heavens ! — They rise, the myriads rise- 
Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains 
Of torpor. — He has ransomed them, * * 

Forgotten generations live again. 

Assume the bodily shapes they owned of old. 

Beyond the flood: — the righteous of their times 

Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. 

The sainted mother wakes, and, in her lap. 

Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave. 

And heritor with her of heaven, — a flower 

Washed by the blood of Jesus from the stain 

Of native guilt, even in its early bud. 

And hark ! those strains, how solemnly serene 

They fall, as from the skies — at distance fall — 

Again more loud ; the hallelujahs swell ; 

The newly-risen catch the joyful sound; 

They glow, they burn : and now, with one accord. 

Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song 

Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb 



206 



POEMS OF HENEY KIRKE WHITE. 



Who bled for mortals. 

Yet tliere is peace for man. — Yea, tliere is peace, 

Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene ; 

When from the crowd, and from the city far, 

Haply he may be set (in his late walk 

O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the bows 

Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone. 

And with fixed eye, and wistful, he surveys 

The solemn shadows of the heavens sail. 

And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time 

Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, 

Far from the unquietness of life — from noise 

And tumult far — beyond the flying clouds. 

Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene. 

Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more. 

H: Hi H: ^ H: ^ 



207 



THE CHRISTIAD. 



A DIVINE POEM. 



This was the work which the author had most at heart. His riper jndo-- 
ment would probably have perceived that the subject was ill chosen. 
What is said so well in the Censura Literaria of all scriptural subjects for 
narrative poetry, applies peculiarly to this. " Anything taken from it leaves 
the story imperfect ; anything added to it disgusts, and almost shocks us 
as impious. As Omar said of the Alexandrian Library, we may say of 
such writings, if they contain only what is in the Scriptures they are super- 
fluous ; if what is not in them they are false."'— It may be added, that the 
mixture of mythology makes truth itself appear fabulous. 

There is great power in the execution of this fragment. — In editing these re- 
mains, I have, with that decorum which it ^s to be wished all editors 
would observe, abstained from informing the reader what he is to admire 
and what he is not ; but I cannot refrain from saying, that the last two 
stanzas greatly affected me, when I discovered them written on the leaf 
of a different book, and apparently long after the first canto ; and greatly 
shall I be mistaken if they do not affect the reader also. 



BOOK I. 



I. 

I SING the Cross ! — Ye wliite-robecl angel choirs, 
Who know the chords of harmony to sweep ; 

Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires, 

Were wont of old your hovering watch to keep. 
Oh, now descend ! and with your harpings deep. 

Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream 
Of music,— such as soothes the saint's last sleep, 

Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, 
And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme. 



208 POEMS OF 



II. 



Mourn ! Salem, monrn ! low lies tliine humbled state, 
Thy glittering fanes are levelled with the ground ! 

Fallen is thy pride ! — Thine halls are desolate ! 

Where erst was heard the timbrel's sprightly sound, 
And frolic pleasures tripped the nightly round, 

There breeds the wild fox lonely, — and aghast 
Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, 

Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast 
Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. 



III. 

It is for this, proud Solyma ! thy towers 
Lie crumbling in the dust ; for this forlorn 

Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers. 
While stern destruction laughs, as if in scorn, 
That thou didst dare insult Glod's eldest-born ; 

And, with most bitter persecuting ire. 

Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn 

Rose on his fortunes — and thou saw'st the fire 
That came to light the world in one great flash expire. 



IV. 

Oh ! for a pencil dipt in living light. 

To paint the agonies that Jesus bore ! 
Oh ! for the long-lost harp of Jesse's might. 

To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore ; 

While seraph hosts the lofty peean pour. 
And heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim ! 

May a frail mortal dare the theme explore ? 
May he to human ears his weak song frame ? 
Oh ! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name ? 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 209 

V. 

Si^irits of pity ! mild Crusaders come ! 

Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float; 
And give liim eloquence wlio else were dumb, 

And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! 

And tliou, Urania ! who dost still devote 
Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, 

Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote. 
Throw o'er thy bard that solemn stole of thine,' 
And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. ' 

VI. 

When from the temple's lofty summit prone, 
Satan o'ercome, fell down ; and 'throndd there. 

The Son of God confest, in splendor shone: 
Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air. 
Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair. 



* 



Fled the stern king of Hell— and with the glare 
Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, 
Shot athwart the clouds that gathered round his head 

VII. 

Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late 

The rude Massaget?e adored— he bent 
His northering course,— while round, in dusky state. 
The assembled fiends their summoned troops auo-- 
ment. ^ 

Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went. 
While as they passed to regions more severe, 

The Lapland sorcerer swelled, with loud lament, 
The solitary gale, and, filled with fear. 
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. 

14 



210 POEMS OF 

VIII. 

"Where the N^orth Pole, in moody solitude, 

Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around ; 

There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude. 
Form a gigantic hall ; where never sound 
Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound, 

The smoke-frost muttered : there drear Cold for aye 
'Thrones him, — and fixed on his primeval mound, 

Euin, the giant, sits ; while stern Dismay 
Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way. 

IX. 

In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, 
1^0 sweet remain of life encheers the sight : 

The dancing heart's blood in an instant there 

Would freeze to marble. — Mingling day and night, 
(Sweet interchange which makes our labors light,) 

Are there unknown ; while in the summer skies 
The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, 

Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies, 
And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise. 

X. 

'Twas there yet shuddering from the burning lake, 
Satan had fixed their next consistory; 

When parting last he fondly hoped to shake 
Messiah's constancy, — and thus to free 
The powers of darkness from the dread decree 

Of bondage, brought by him, and circumvent 
The unerring ways of him, whose eye can see 

The womb of Time, and in its embryo pent. 
Discern the colors clear of every dark event. 

XI. 

Here the stern monarch stayed his rapid flight, 
And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 211 

Hovering obscured tlie north star's peaceful liglit, 
Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's caU. 
He, meanwhile, downward, with a sudden fall, 

Dropt on the echoing ice. Instant the sound 
Of their broad vans was hushed, and o'er the hall. 

Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound. 
Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround. 

XII. 

High on a solium of the solid wave, 

Prankt with rude shapes by the fantastic frost. 

He stood in silence ; — now keen thoughts engrave 
Dark figures on his front ; and tempest tost, 
He fears to say that every hope is lost. 

Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute : 
So ere the tempest on Molacca's coast. 

Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute. 
Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. 

XIII. 

At length collected, o'er the dark Divan, 

The arch fiend glanced, as by the Boreal blaze 

Their downcast brows were seen, — and thus began 
His fierce harangue : — '' Spirits ! our better days 
Are now elapsed ; Moloch and Belial's praise 

Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. 
Lo ! the light breaks ! — The astonished nations gaze ! 

For us is lifted high the avenging rod ! 
For, spirits, this is He — this is the Son of God ! 

XIV. 

" Wliat then ! — shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear ? 
Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign. 



212 POEMS OF 

Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear ! 
Madness ! the very thought woukl make me fain 
To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy pLain, 

And hurl them at their Maker. — Fixed as fate 

I am his foe ! — Yea, though his pride should deign 

To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, 
Still would I burn with fixed unalterable hate. 

XV. 

" ^ow hear the issue of my curst emprise, 
When from our last synod I took my flight, 

Buoyed with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, 
To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write 
His own self-condemnation ; — in the plight 

Of aged man in the lone wilderness. 

Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight ; 

And leaning on my staff, seemed much to guess 
What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess. 

XVI. 

'^ Then thus in homely guise I featly framed 

My lowly speech — ' Good sir, what leads this way 
Your wandering steps ? must hapless chance be blamed 

That you so far from haunt of mortals stray ? 

Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day, 
~^0Y trace of man have seen. — But how ! methought 

Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray 
I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught 
That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.' 

XVII. 

'^ '1 am that man,' said Jesus ; ^ I am he. 

But truce to questions — canst thou point my feet 
To some low hut, if haply such there be 

In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 213 

With homely greeting, and may sit and eat : 
For forty days I have tarried fasting here, 

Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, 
And now I hunger ; and my fainting ear 
Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing 
near.' 

XVIII. 

" Then thus I answered wily : — * If, indeed, 
Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek 

For food from men ? — Lo ! on these flint stones feed. 
Bid them he bread ! Open thy lips and speak, 
And living rills from yon parched rock will break.* 

Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye 

Fixed on my face ; the blood forsook my cheek, 

I could not bear his gaze ; my mask slipped by ; 
I would have shunned his look, but had not power to fly. 

XIX. 

" Then he rebuked me with the holy word — 
Accursed sounds ! but now my native pride 

Returned, and by no foolish qualm deterred, 
I bore him from the mountain's woody side. 
Up to the summit, where, extending wide. 

Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes. 

Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried, 

And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains. 
Tripped to the jocund reed the emasculated swains. 

XX. 

^' 'Behold,' I cried, 'these glories ! scenes divine ! 

Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays. 
And these, rapture ! these shall all be thine. 

If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise 



214 



POEMS OF 



Hatli lie not given to indigence thy days ? 
Is not thy portion peril here and pain ? 

Oh ! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways ! 
Sieze the tiara ! these mean weeds disdain, 
Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendor 
gain.' 

XXI. 

" ' Is it not written,' sternly he replied, 

' Tempt not the Lord thy God V Frowning he 
spake, 
And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide, 

Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake, 
And caught me up aloft, till in one flake 
The sidelong volley met my swift career 

And smote me earthward. — Jove himself might 
quake 
At such a fall ; my sinews cracked, and near, 
Obscure, and dizzy sounds seemed ringing in mine ear. 

XXII. 

" Senseless and stunned I lay ; till casting round • 
My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe 

Borne on a car of roses to the ground. 
By volant angels ; and as sailing slow 
He sunk, the hoary battlement below. 

While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam. 
Sweet on the enamored zephyr was the flow 

Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem, 
On starlight hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream. 

XXIII. 

" I saw blaspheming. Hate renewed my strength, 
I smote the ether with my iron wing, 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 215 



And left the accursed scene.— Arrived at length 
In these drear halls, to ye, my peers ! I brhio- 
The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty Idno-^ 

Thrice vanquished, baffled, smitten, and dismayed' 
shame ! Is this the hero who could flino- 

Defiance at his Maker, while arrayed, "^ 

High o'er the walls of light rebellion's banners played ' 



XXIV. 






'' Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph Ion 
Hell yet shall have revenge.-O glorious sight, 

-Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, 
I see wild agony's lean finger write' 
Sad figures on his forehead !_Keenly brio-ht 

Eevenge's flambeau burns ! ^ow in his eyes 
Stand the hot tears,— immantled in the night, 

Lo ! he retires to mourn !— I hear his cries — 
He faints-he falls-and lo !-'tis true, ye powers, he 
dies." 



XXV. 



Thus spake the chieftain,— and as if he viewed 
The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced. 

And chest inflated, motionless he stood. 
While under his uplifted shield he gknced 
With straining eyeball fixed, like one entranced, 

On viewless air;— thither the dark platoon 

Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there 
danced 

The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon 
Darkened the disk of the descending moon. 

XXVI. 

Silence crept stilly through the ranks.— The breeze 
Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands 



216 



POEMS OF 



"Wlien all the midnight gasping from the seas 
Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands 
High on the shrouds the spirit that commands 
The ocean-farer's life ; so stiffs — so sere 

Stood each dark power ; — while through their nume- 
rous bands 
Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear 
^ow told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear. 

XXVII. 

One there was there, whose loud defying tongue 
E'or hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell 

Of overboiling malice. Utterance long 

His passion mocked, and long he strove to tell 
His laboring ire ; still syllable none fell 

From his pale quivering lip, but died away 

For very fury ; from each hollow cell 

Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray, 
j4^Yi(j ***** 

XXVIII. 

" This comes," at length burst from the furious chief, 
''This comes of distant counsels! Here behold 

The fruits of wily cunning ! the relief 
Which coward policy would fain unfold. 
To soothe the powers that warred with Heaven of old ! 

wise ! potent ! sagacious snare ! 

And lo ! our prince — the mighty and the bold, 

There stands he, spell struck, gaping at the air, 
While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her stan- 
dard there," 

XXIX. 

Here, as, recovered, Satan fixed his eye 

Full on the speaker ; dark it was and stern ; 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 217 

He wrapt his black vest round liim gloomily, 

And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts con- 
cern. 
Him Moloch marked, and strove again to turn 
His soul to rage. "Behold ! behold !" he cried, 

" The lord of Hell, who bade these regions spurn 
Almighty rule — behold, he la3^s aside 
The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied." 

XXX. 

Thus ended Moloch, and his [burning] tongue 
Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat 

In slaughter. So, his native wilds among. 
The famished tiger pants, when near his seat. 
Pressed on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet. 

Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword 

Had from its scabbard sprung ; but toward the seat 

Of the arch-fiend all turned with one accord, 
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. 

•J* 5ji ^ ^ ^ 5|C 

Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved this of 
old. Who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah ? 
Who coped with Ithuriel, and the thunders of the Al- 
mighty ? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on 
the burning lake, who first awoke, and collected your 
scattered powers ? Lastly, who led you across the un- 
fathomable abyss to this delightful world, and established 
that reign here which now totters to its base. How, 
therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on 
Satan's bravery ? he who preys only on the defenceless — 
who sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts 
of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. Away with 
the boaster who never joins in action, but, like a cor- 



218 



POEMS OF 



morant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the wounded, 
and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote 
from rashness as from hesitation ; let us counsel coolly, 
but let us execute our counselled purposes determinately. 
In power we have learnt, by that experiment which lost 
us heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer. 
In subtlety — in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open 
war is impossible. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

'' Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through the 
race 

"Which as himself he loves ; thus if we fall, 
We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace 

Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 

Of vengeance rings within me ! AVarriors all. 
The word is Vengeance, and the spur Despair. 

Away with coward wiles ! Death's coal-black pall 
Be now our standard ! — Be our torch, the glare 
Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air !" 

Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old. 
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, 

Was worshipped, God of Fire, with charms untold 
And mystery. His wandering spirit loves, 
Now vainly searching for the fiame it roves, 

And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire, 
Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves 

And cinnamon upheaped the sacred pyre. 

And nightly magi watched the everlasting fire. 

He waved his robe of flame, he crossed his breast, 
And sighing — his papyrus scarf surveyed, 

"Woven with dark characters ; then thus addressed 
The troubled council. 

?!• jjC y^ ?f* 1* 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 219 

I. 

Thus far liave I pursued my solemn theme 

With self-rewarding toil ; — thus far have sung 
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than heseem 

The lyre, which I in early days have strung ; 

And now my spirits faint, and. I have hung 
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 

On the dark cypress ! and the strings which rung 
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, 
Or when the breeze comes by moan and are heard no 
more. 

And must the harp of Judah sleep again, 

Shall I no more reanimate the lay ! 
Oh ! thou who visitest the sons of men, 

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 

One little space prolong my mournful day ! 
One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 

I am a youthful traveller in the way, 
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee. 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. 



220 



POEMS, 

WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF CLIFTON GROVE. 



CHILDHOOD. 

A POEM. 

This is one of Henry's earliest productions, and appears, by the handwriting, 
to have been written when he was between fourteen and fifteen. Tlie 
picture of the schoolmistress is from nature. 

PART I. 

Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet, 
Our infant days, our infant joys to greet; 
To roam in fancy in eacli cherislied scene, 
The village churchyard, and the village green. 
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, 
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade. 
The whitewashed cottage, where the woodbine grew, 
And all the favorite haunts our childhood knew ! 
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, 
To view the unclouded skies of former days ! 

Beloved age of innocence and smiles, 

When each winged hour some new delight beguiles. 

When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true, 

Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. 

Blest Childhood, hail ! — Thee simply will I sing. 

And from myself the artless picture bring ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 221 

These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, 
Each humble friend, each pleasure, now no more, 
And ev'ry stump familiar to my sight, 
Recalls some fond idea of delight. 

This shrubby knoll was once my favorite seat ; 

Here did I love at evening to retreat, 

And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 

Hesper, aspiring, showed his golden light. 

Here once again, remote from human noise, 

I sit me down to think of former joys ; 

Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more. 

And once again each infant walk explore. 

While as each grove and lawn I recognize. 

My melted soul sufiuses in my eyes. 

And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort 
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought ; 
Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, 
Flings to his soul a borrowed gleam of joy; 
Blest Memory, guide, with finger nicely true. 
Back to my youth my retrospective view ; 
Recall with" faithful vigor to my mind 
Each face familiar, each relation kind ; 
And all the finer traits of them afibrd, 
Whose general outline in my heart is stored. 

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls. 
In many a fold, the mantling woodbine falls. 
The village matron kept her little school. 
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : 
Her neatly-bordered cap, as lily fair, 
Beneath her chin was pinned with decent care ; 



2-2 POEMS OF 

And pendant ruffles, of tlie whitest lawn, 

Of ancient make, lier elbows did adorn. 

Faint witli old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 

A pair of spectacles their want supplies ; 

These does she guard secure, in leathern case, 

From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. 

Here first I entered, though with toil and pain, 

The low vestibule of learning's fane : 

Entered with pain, yet soon I found the way, 

Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 

Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn, 

When I was first to school reluctant borne ; 

Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried 

To soothe my swelling spirits when I sighed ; 

And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, 

To my lone corner brokenhearted crept. 

And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 

But soon inured to alphabetic toils. 
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; 
First at the form, my task forever true, 
A little favorite rapidly I grew : 
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight. 
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; 
And as she gave my diligence its praise. 
Talked of the honors of my future days. 

Oh, had the venerable matron thought 
Of all the ills by talent often brought ; 
Could she have seen me when revolving years 
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears. 
Then had she wept, and wished my wayward fate 
Had been a lowlier, an unlettered state ; 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 223 

Wished that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 
Unknown, unheard, I might have passed through life. 

"^^Hiere in the busy scene, by peace unblest. 

Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? 

A lonely mariner on the stormy main. 

Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ; 

Long tossed by tempests o'er the world's wide shore. 

When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more ? 

]^ot till the light foam of the sea shall lave 

The sandy surface of his unwept grave. 

Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, 

Serenest season of perpetual calms, — 

Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, 

And joy to think with thee I tasted j^eace. 

Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles. 

But each new object brings attendant smiles ; 

When future evils never haunt the sight. 

But all is pregnant with unmixt delight ; 

To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, — 

Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 

'J^eath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, 

Wlien the clock spoke the hour of labor o'er, 

Wliat clamorous throngs, what happy groups were 

seen, 
In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green ! 
Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 
Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 
Wliile others, seated on the dappled grass, 
With doleful tales the light-winged minutes pass. 
Well I remember how, with gesture starched, 
A band of soldiers, oft with pride we marched ; 
For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 
Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind ; 



224 P E M S F 

And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 
And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ; 
Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown. 
We stormed some ruined pig-sty for a town. 

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont 

To set her wheel before the cottage front. 

And o'er her spectacles would often peer. 

To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. 

Still as she looked her wheel kept turning round, 

With its beloved monotony of sound. 

When tired of play, we'd set us by her side, 

(For out of school she never knew to chide) — 

And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — 

For who could match in spinning with the dame ? 

Her sheets, her linen, which she showed with pride 

To strangers, still her thriftness testified ; 

Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth. 

How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. 

Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play, 

To chat at home the vacant hour away. 

Many's the time I've scampered down the glade. 

To ask the promised ditty from the maid. 

Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing, 

While we around her formed a little ring : 

She told of innocence, foredoomed to bleed, 

Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, 

Or little children murdered as they slept; 

While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. 

Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we. 

Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. 

Poor simple wights, ah ! little did we ween 

The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene ! 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 225 

Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know, 
This world's a w^orld of weeping and of woe ! 

Beloved moment ! then 'twas first I cauo;ht 

The first foundation of romantic thought. 

Then first I shed hold Fancy's thrilling tear. 

Then first that poesy charmed mine infant ear. 

Soon stored with much of legendary lore, 

The sports of childhood charmed my soul no more. 

Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, 

Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, 

I hied me to the thick o'erarching shade, 

And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, 

While at my feet the rippling runnel ran. 

The days of wild romance antique I'd scan ; 

Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, 

To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. 



PART II. 



There are, who think that Childhood does not share 
With age the cup, the hitter cup of care : 
Alas ! they know not this unhappy truth. 
That every age, and rank, is horn to ruth. 

From the first dawn of reason in the mind, 
Man is foredoomed the thorns of grief to find ; 
At every step has further cause to know. 
The draught of pleasure still is dashed with woe. 

Yet in the youthful breast, forever caught 
With some new object for romantic thought. 
The impression of the moment quickly flies, 
And with the morrow every sorrow dies, 

15 



226 POEMS OF 

How cliiFerent manhood ! — tlieii does thought's control 

Sink every pang still deeper in the soul ; 

Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart, 

Becomes a painful resident in the heart ; 

And Care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, 

Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. 

Then, as each long-known friend is summoned hence. 

We feel a void no joy can recompense. 

And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb. 

Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom. 

Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, 

'No forms of future ill salute thy view, 

1^0 pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep. 

But Halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, 

And sanguine Hope through every storm of life. 

Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. 

Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine, 

Aflection's little thread will ever twine ; 

And though but frail may seem each tender tie. 

The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. 

Thus, when the long-expected moment came, 

When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame. 

Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast, 

And a still tear my silent grief expressed. 

When to the public school compelled to go. 
What novel scenes did on my senses flow ! 
There in each breast each active power dilates. 
Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states ; 
There reigns by turns alternate, love and hate. 
Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate ; 
And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, 
The dark deformities of man appear. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 227 

Yet there the gentler virtues kindred chaim, 
There Friendship hghts her pure untainted flame, 
There mikl Benevolence delights to dwell, 
And sweet Contentment rests without her cell ; 
And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find 
The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. 

'Twas there, oh George ! with thee I learned to join 
In Friendship's hands — in amity divine. 
Oh, mournful thought ! — Where is thy spirit now ? 
As here I sit on fav'rite Logar's hrow. 
And trace helow each well-rememhered glade, 
Where, arm in arm, erewhile with thee I strayed. 
Where art thou laid — on what untrodden shore, 
Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar ? 
Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, 
At last repose from all the storms of fate ? 
Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, 
Without one aiding hand stretched out to save ; 
See thee convulsed, thy looks to Heaven bend, 
And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend. 
Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, 
Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, 
While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife. 
Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. 
Again I see his door against thee shut. 
The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut : 
I see thee spent with toil, and worn with grief, 
Sit on the grass, and wish the longed relief; 
Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er. 
Think on thy native land — and rise no more ! 

Oh that thou couldst from thine august abode, 
Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road, 



228 POEMS OF 

That tlion couldst see him at this moment here, 
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, 
And hover o'er him as he gazes romid, 
Where all the scenes of infant joys smTOund. 

Yes ! yes ! his spirit's near! — The whispering breeze 
Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees : 
And lo ! his form transparent I perceive. 
Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve : 
He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, 
While deathly silence reigns upon the globe. 

Yet ah ! whence comes this visionary scene ? 
'Tis fancy's wild aerial dream I ween ; 
By lier inspired, when reason takes its flight, 
« Wliat fond illusions beam upon the sight ! 

She waves her hand, and lo ! what forms appear ! 
What magic sounds salute the wondering ear ! 
Once more o'er distant regions do we tread. 
And the cold grave yields up its cherished dead ; 
While present sorrows banished far away, 
Unclouded azure gilds the placid day. 
Or in the future's cloud-encircled face. 
Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, 
And draw minutely every little wile, 
Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile. 

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, 
The Royal Mary solitary sate. 

And viewed the moonbeam trembling on the wave. 
And heard the hollow surge her prison lave. 
Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight, 
For there her soul had winged its longing flight; 
There did she form full many a scheme of joy, 
Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy. 




Jo 7^y/tm /'oHom, a.n^6on6so/n& ^ic h^r ^ a-ce^, 
thcHoyMjkfa^ry s'olUary sale." 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



229 



Which bright through hope's deceitful optics beamed, 
And all became the surety which it seemed ; 
She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, 
In every tear a melancholy charm. 

To yonder hill, whose sides, deformed and steep, 

Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep. 

With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, 

To see the sun rise from his healthy bed ; 

To watch the aspect of the summer morn, 

Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, 

And taste, delighted, of superior joys. 

Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes : 

With silent admiration oft we viewed 

The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strewed : 

The fieecy clouds, of every tint and shade, 

Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing played, 

And the round orb itself, in azure throne. 

Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone : 

We marked, delighted, how with aspect gay, 

Reviving nature hailed returning day ; 

Marked how the flowrets reared their drooping heads. 

And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads. 

While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight. 

The birds sung pseans to the source of light : 

Oft have we watched the speckled lark arise. 

Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, 

And rise, and rise, till the pained sight no more 

Could trace him in his high aerial tour; 

Though on the ear, at intervals, his song 

Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along : 

And we have thought how happy were our lot, 

Blessed with some sweet, some solitary cot. 



-30 POEMS OF 

Where, from tlie peep of day, till russet eve 
Began in every dell her forms to weave, 
We might pursue our sports from day to day, 
And in each other's arms wear life away. 

At sultry noon, too, when our toils were done. 
We to the gloomy glen were wont to run ; 
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet 
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet ; 
And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore. 
Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more ; 
Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept. 
Sung woe unto the wicked land — and wept ; 
Or, fancy led, saw Jeremiah mourn 
In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. 
Then to another shore perhaps would rove, 
With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove ; 
Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose, 
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. 

Sweet then to us was that romantic band. 

The ancient legends of our native land — 

Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair. 

And courteous Constance, doomed to dark despair, 

By turns our thoughts engaged ; and oft we talked 

Of times when monarch Superstition stalked. 

And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome 

Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom ; 

While where the wood-hung Menai's waters flow. 

The hoary harpers poured the strain of woe. 

While thus employed, to us how sad the bell 

Which summoned us to school ! 'Twas Fancy's knell, 

And sadly sounding on the sullen ear. 

It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



281 



Yet even tlien, (for oh, what chains can bind, 
What powers control, the energies of mind?) 
E'en there we soared to many a height sublime. 
And many a day-dream charmed the lazy time. 

At evening, too, how pleasing was our walk, * 

Endeared by Friendship's unrestrained talk, 

When to the upland heights we bent our way. 

To view the last beam of departing day ; 

How calm was all around ! no playful breeze 

Sighed 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, 

But all was still, save when, with drowsy song. 

The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along ; 

And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee. 

The distant church-bells' mellow harmony ; 

The silver mirror of the lucid brook, 

.That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took ; 

The rugged arch, that clasped its silent tides. 

With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides ; 

The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight; 

The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight : 

All, all was pregnant w^ith divine delight. 

We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, 

In the bright azure of the vaulted sky ; 

Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colored pride 

Was scattered thinly o'er the welkin wide. 

And tinged with such variety of shade, 

To the charmed soul sublimest thoughts conveyed. 

In these, what forms romantic did we trace. 

While fancy led us o'er the realms of space ! 

ITow we espied the thunderer in his car, 

Leading the embattled seraphim to war. 

Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, 

In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky — 



232 POEMS OF 

Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, 

A ridge of glaciers in mural white, 

Hugely terrific. — But those times are o'er. 

And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more ; 

For thou art gone, and I am left below. 

Alone to struggle through this world of woe. 

The scene is o'er — still seasons onward roll, 

And each revolve conducts me toward the goal : 

Yet all is blank, without one soft relief. 

One endless continuity of grief; 

And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, 

Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. 

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant 

For hoards of wealth which ye will never want ; 

And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign 

The calms of peace and happiness divine ! 

Far other cares be mine. — Men little crave. 

In this short journey to the silent grave ; 

And the poor peasant, blessed with peace and health, 

I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. 

Yet grieve not I, that fate did not decree 

Paternal acres to await on me ; 

She gave me more, she placed within my breast 

A heart with little pleased — with little blest : 

I look around me, where, on every side. 

Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride ; 

And could my sight be borne to either zone, 

I should not find one foot of land my own. 

But whither do I wander ? shall the Muse, 

For golden baits, her simple theme refuse : 

Oh no ! but while the weary spirit greets 

The fading scenes of Childhood's far-gone sweets, 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 233 

It catclies all the infant's wanderino; ton2:iie. 

And prattles on in desultory song. 

That song must close — the gloomy mists of night 

Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, 

And ebon darkness, clad in vapory wet, 

Steals on the welkin in primeval jet. 

The song must close. — Once more my adverse lot 
Leads me reluctant from this cherished spot ; 
Again compels to plunge in busy life, 
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. 

Scenes of my youth — ere my unwilling feet 
Are turned forever from this loved retreat. 
Ere on these fields, with plenty covered o'er, 
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, 
Let me ejaculate to feeling due. 
One long, one last, affectionate adieu. 
Grant that if ever Providence should please 
To give me an old age of peace and ease. 
Grant that in these sequestered shades my days 
May wear away in gradual decays : 
And oh, ye spirits, who unbodied play, 
Unseen upon the pinions of the day. 
Kind genii of my native fields benign, 
Who were ^ ^^ ^ ^ 



234 POEMS OF 



FRAGMENT OF A:^ ECCE^sTTRIC DRAMA. 

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. 

In a little volume which the author had copied out, apparently for the press, 
before the publication of " Clifton Grove," the song with which this frag- 
ment commences was inserted, under the title of " The Dance of the Con- 
sumptives, in imitation of Shakspeare, taken from an Eccentric Drama, 
written by H. K. W. when very young." The rest was discovered among 
his loose papers, in the first rude draught, having, to all appearance, never 
been transcribed. The song was extracted when he was sixteen, and 
must have been written at least a year before — probably more, by the hand- 
writing. There is something strikingly wild and original in the fragment. 

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 

I. 

Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Merry, merry, go the bells. 



Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Over tlie lieatli, over the moor, and over the dale, 

"Swinging slow with sullen roar," 
Dance, dance away, the jocund roundelay ! 
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away. 

II. 

Round the oak, and round the elm. 

Merrily foot it o'er the ground ! 
The sentry ghost it stands aloof, 
So merrily, merrily, foot it round. 
Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Merry, merry, go the hells. 
Swelling in the nightly gale. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 235 

The sentry ghost 

It keeps its post, 
And soon, and soon, our sports must fail : 
But let us trip tlie nightly ground, 
While the merry, merry, hells ring round. 

III. 

Hark ! hark ! the death-watch ticks ! 
See, see, the winding-sheet ! 

Our dance is done, 

Our race is run. 
And we must lie at the alder's feet. 

Ding-dong, ding-dong. 

Merry, merry, go the bells. 
Swinging o'er the weltering wave ! 

And we must seek 

Our deathbeds bleak, 
"VVliere the green sod grows upon the grave. 

(They vanish — The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue 
Robe — Attended by mournful Music.) 

Come, Melancholy, sister mine ! 

Cold the dews, and chill the night : 
Come from thy dreary shrine ! 

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height. 
And underneath her sickly ray. 
Troops of squalid spectres play. 
And the dying mortal's groan 
Startles the night on her dusky throne. 
Come, come, sister mine ! 
Gliding on the pale moonshine : 
We'll ride at ease, 
On the tainted breeze. 
And oh ! our sport will be divine. 



236 P E M S F 

(The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep Glen in the rear 
habited in Black, and covered with a thick Veil — She speaks.) 

Sister, from my dark abode, 
Where nests the raven, sits the toad. 
Hither I come, at thy command ; 
Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
I will smoothe the way for thee, 
Thou shalt furnish food for me. 
Come, let us speed our way 
Where the troops of spectres play. 
To charnel-houses, churchyards drear, 
Wliere Death sits with a horrible leer, 
A lasting grin on a throne of bones. 
And skim along the blue tombstones. 
Come, let us speed away, 
Lay our snares, and spread our tether ! 
I will smoothe the w^ay for thee. 
Thou shalt furnish food for me ; 
And the grass shall wave 
O'er many a grave. 
Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

CONSUMPTION. 

Come, let us speed our way ! 
Join our hands, and spread our tether 1 
I will furnish food for thee. 
Thou shalt smoothe the way for me ; 
And the grass shall wave 
O'er many a grave. 
Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Hist, sister, hist ! who comes here ? 
Oh, I know Ler by that tear, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 237 

By that blue eye's languid glare, 
By her skin, and by her hair : 

She is mine. 

And she is thine, 
]N"ow the deadliest draught prepare. 

CONSUMPTION. 

In the dismal night air drest, 
I will creep into her breast ; 
Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin. 
And feed on the vital fire within. 
Lover, do not trust her eyes, — 
When they sparkle most she dies ! 
Mother, do not trust her breath, — 
Comfort she will breathe in death ! 
Father, do not strive to save her, — 
She is mine, and I must have her ! 
The coffin must be her bridal bed ; 
The winding-sheet must wrap her head ; 
The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, 
For soon in the grave the maid must lie. 

The worm it will riot 

On heavenly diet. 
When death has deflowered her eye. 

[They vanish. 
While Consumption speaks. Angelina enters. 
ANGELINA. 

With* what a silent and dejected pace 

Dost thou, wan moon ! upon thy way advance 

In the blue welkin's vault ! — Pale wanderer ! 

* With how sad steps, Moon ! thou climb'st the skies, 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! 

Sir p. Sidney. 



238 



POEMS OF 

Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, 
That thus, with such a melancholy grace, 
Thou dost pursue thy solitary course ? 
Hast thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook 
Thy widowed breast — on which the spoiler oft 
Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds 
Fantastic pillowed thee, and the dim night. 
Obsequious to thy will, encurtained round 
"With its thick fringe thy couch ? — Wan traveller. 
How like thy fate to mine ! — ^Yet I have still 
One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st: 
My woes will soon be buried in the grave 
Of kind forge tfulness : — my journey here, 
Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn. 
Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet 
Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. 
But thou, unhappy Queen ! art doomed to trace 
Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night. 
While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath 
The leaden pinions of unshaken time ; 
Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue 
To cheat thy steps along the weary way. 

Oh that the sum of human happiness 

Should be so trifling, and so frail withal. 

That when possessed, it is but lessened grief; 

And even then there's scarce a sudden gust 

That blows across the dismal waste of life. 

But bears it from the view. — Oh ! who would shun 

The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press 

The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave. 

And yet endure the various ills of life. 

And dark vicissitudes ! — Soon, I hope, I feel. 

And am assured, that I shall lay my head. 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 239 

My weary aching head, on its last rest, 

And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod 

Will flourish sweetly.— And then they will weep 

That one so young, and what they're pleased to call 

So beautiful, should die so soon ; — and tell 

How painful disappointment's cankered fang 

Withered the rose upon my maiden cheek. 

Oh foolish ones ! why, I shall sleep so sweetly, 

Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves 

Might envy me my rest !— And as for them, 

Who, on the score of former intimacy, 

May thus remembrance me— they must themselves 

Successive fall. 

Around the winter fire 
(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, 
And shrill the skater's ironson the pool 
Eing loud, as by the moonlight he performs 
His graceful evolutions) they not long 
Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats 
Of early youth, but silent, one by one, 
Shall drop into their shrouds.— Some, in their age. 
Ripe for the sickle ; others young, like me. 
And falling green beneath the untimely stroke. 
Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn. 
Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them do'wn. 
And dwell with me, a happy family. 
And oh, thou cruel, yet beloved youth, 
Wlio now has left me hopeless here to mourn. 
Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse. 
And say that I was gentle, and deserved 
A better lover, and I shall forgive 
All, all thy wrongs ;— and then do thou forget 
The hapless Margaret, and be as blest 



240 POEMS OP 

As wish can make thee. — ^Laiigh, and play, and sing, 
With thy dear choice, and never think of me. 

Yet hist, I hear a step. — In this dark wood — 



. TO A FRIEND. 

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. 

I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, 
And many another noble Grecian, 
Who wealth and palaces resigned, 
In cots the joys of peace to find ; 
Maximian's meal of turnip-tops 
(Disgusting food to dainty chops), 
I've also read of, without wonder : 
But such a curst egregious blunder. 
As that a man, of wit and sense. 
Should leave his books to hoard up pence. 
Forsake the loved Aonian maids. 
For all the petty tricks of trades, 
I never, either now, or long since. 
Have heard of such a piece of nonsense ; 
That one who learning's joys hath felt, 
And at the Muse's altar knelt. 
Should leave a life of sacred leisure. 
To taste the accumulating pleasure ; 
And metamorphosed to an alley duck, 
Grovel in loads of kindred muck. 
Oh ! 'tis beyond my comprehension ! 
A courtier throwing up his pension, — 
A lawyer working without a fee, 
A parson giving charity. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 241 

A truly pious Metliodist preaclier, 

Are not, egacl, so out of nature. 

Had nature made thee half a fool, 

But given thee wit to keep a school, 

I had not stared at thy backsliding ; 

But when thy wit I can confide in, 

Wlien well I know thy just pretence 

To solid and exalted sense ; 

When well I know that on thy head 

Philosophy her lights hath shed, 

I stand aghast ! thy virtues sum to, 

And wonder what this world will come to ! 

Yet, whence this strain ? shall I repine 
That thou alone dost singly shine ? 
Shall I lament that thou alone, 
Of men of parts, hast prudence known ? 



LINES, ON EEADING THE POEMS OF 
WAPTOK 

AGE FOURTEEN. 

O Warton ! to thy soothing shell. 
Stretched remote in hermit cell. 
Where the brook runs babbling by, 
Forever I could listening lie ; 
And catching all the Muses' fire, 
Hold converse with the tuneful choir. 

What pleasing themes thy page adorn I 

The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, 
16 



242 P E M S F 



The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime, 
And melanclioly's mournful chime, 
Each with unwonted graces shines 
In thy ever lovely lines. 

Thy muse deserves the lasting meed ; 
Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, 
Kow the lovelorn swain complains, 
And sings his sorrows to the plains ; 
E"ow the sylvan scenes appear 
Through all the changes of the year ; 
Or the elegiac strain 
Softly sings of mental pain. 
And mournful diapasons sail 
On the faintly-dying gale. 

But, ah ! the soothing scene is o'er ! 
On middle flight we cease to soar. 
For now the Muse assumes a bolder sweep. 
Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, 

In strains unheard before. 
Now, now the rising fire thrills high, 
:N'ow, now to heaven's high realms we fly, 

And every throne explore ; 
The soul entranced, on mighty wings. 
With all the poet's heat, up springs. 

And loses earthly woes ; 
Till all alarmed at the giddy height. 
The Muse descends on gentler flight. 

And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 243 



TO THE MUSE. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 
I. 

Ill-fated maid, in wliose unliappy train, 
Chill poverty and misery are seen, 

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane 
Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene ; 

Wliy to thy votaries dost thou give to feel 
So keenly all the scorns — the jeers of life ? 
Why not endow them to endure the strife 

With apathy's invulnerable steel. 

Or self-content and ease, each torturing wound to 
heal. 

II. 

Ah ! who would taste your self-deluding joys, 
That lure the unwary to a wretched doom. 

That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise. 
Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb ? 

What is the charm which leads thy victims on 
To persevere in paths that lead to woe ? 
What can induce them in that route to go. 

In which innumerous before have gone. 

And died in misery, poor and woe-begone ? 

III. 

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found : 
I, who have drank from thine ethereal rill. 

And tasted all the pleasures that abound 
Upon Parnassus, loved Aonian hill ? 

I, through whose soul the Muses' strains aye thrill ! 



0.14 POEMS OF 



Oil ! I do feel the spell witli wliicli I'm tied ; 
And tliougli our annals fearful stories tell, 
How Savage languished, and how Otway died. 
Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. 



so:ng. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 
I. 

Softly, softly, blow, ye breezes. 

Gently o'er my Edwy fly ! 
Lo ! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly ; 
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by ! 
My love is asleep. 
He lies by the deep. 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

II. 
I have covered him with rushes, 
"Water-flags, and branches dry. 
Edwy, long have been thy slumbers ; 
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye ! 
My love is asleep, 
He lies by the deep, 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

III. 
Still he sleeps ; he will not waken, 

Eastly closed is his eye ; 
Paler is his cheek, and chiller 

Than the icy moon on high. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 245 

Alas ! he is dead, 
He has chose his deathbed 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

IV. 

Is it, is it so, my Edwj ? 

Will thy slumbers never fly ? 
Couldst thou think I would survive thee ? 
]^o, my love, thou bidst me die. 
Thou bidst me seek 
Thy deathbed bleak 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

V. 

I will gently kiss thy cold lips, 

On thy breast I'll lay my head. 
And the winds shall sing our death-dirge. 
And our shroud the waters sjDread ; 
The moon will smile sweet, 
And the wild wave will beat, 
Oh ! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 



THE WAI^DEEma BOY. 

A SONG. 
I. 

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, 
And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; 
When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye. 
Oh, how hard is the lot of the wandering boy ! 



246 POEMS OF 

II. 

The winter is cold, and I have no vest, 
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast ; 
^o father, no mother, no kindred have I, 
For I am a parentless wandering boy. 

III. 
Yet I once had a home, and I once had a sire, 
A mother, who granted each infant desire ; 
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embowered vale, 
Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale. 

IV. 

But my father and mother were summoned away, 
And they left me to hardhearted strangers a prey ; 
I fled from their rigor with many a sigh. 
And now I'm a poor little wandering boy. 

V. 

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale. 
And no one will list to my innocent tale ; 
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie. 
And death shall befriend the poor wandering boy. 



FRAGMENT. 

The western gale. 

Mild as the kisses of connubial love. 
Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved. 
Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade 
I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat ; 
While rippling o'er its deep-worn pebble bed, 
The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 247 

Dispensing coolness. — On the fringed marge 
Full many a flow'ret rears its head, — or pink, 
Or gaudy daffodil. — 'Tis here, at noon, 
The buskined wood-nymphs from the heat retire, 
And lave them in the fountain ; here secure 
From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport ; 
Or stretched supinely on the velvet turf. 
Lulled by the laden bee, or sultry fly. 
Invoke the God of slumber. * * 



And hark, how merrily, from distant tower, 
Ring round the village bells ! now on the gale 
They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud ; 
Anon they die upon the pensive ear. 
Melting in faintest music. — They bespeak 
A day of jubilee, and oft they bear 
Commixt along the unfrequented shore. 
The sound of village dance and tabor loud. 
Startling the musing ear of solitude. 

Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, 
When happy Superstition, gabbling eld ! 
Holds her unhurtful gambols. — All the day 
The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance. 
On the smooth-shaven green, and then at eve 
Commence the harmless rites and auguries ; 
And many a tale of ancient days goes round. 
'They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells 
Could hold in dreadful thrall the laboring moon. 
Or draw the fixed stars from their eminence. 
And still the midnight tempest. — Then anon. 
Tell of uncharnelled spectres, seen to glide 
Along the lone wood's unfrequented path, 



248 POEMS OF 



Startling the 'niglited traveller ; while the sound 
Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come 
From the dark centre of the deep'ning glen, 
Struck on his frozen ear. 

Oh, Ignorance, 
Thou art fall'n man's best friend ! With thee he speeds 
In frigid apathy along his way, 
And never does the tear of agony 
Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel 
Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. 

E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, 

I taste of all the keener happiness 

Which sense refined affords — e'en now my heart 

Would fain induce me to forsake the world. 

Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, 

With a small flock, and short suspended reed, 

To sojurn in the woodland.— Then my thought 

Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss. 

That I could almost err in reason's spite, 

And trespass on my judgment. 

Such is life : 
The distant prospect always seems more fair, 
And when attained, another still succeeds 
Far fairer than before,— yet compassed round 
With the same dangers, and the same dismay. 
And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze. 
Still discontented, chase the fairy form 
Of unsubstantial happiness, to find, 
When life itself is sinking in the strife, 
'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 249 

CANZONET. 

I. 

Maiden ! wrap thy mantle round thee, 

Cold the rain beats on thy breast : 
Why should horror's voice astound thee ? 
Death can bid the wretched rest ! 
All under the tree 
Thy bed may be, 
And thou mayst slumber peacefully. 

II. 

Maiden ! once gay pleasure knew thee ; 

I^ow thy cheeks are pale and deep : 
Love has been a felon to thee ; 
Yet, poor maiden, do not weep : 
There's rest for thee 
All under the tree, 
Wliere thou wilt sleep most peacefully. 



commencement of a poem 

0^ DESPAIR. 

Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound 
With winning elegance attune their song. 
Formed to sink lightly on the soothed sense. 
And charm the soul with softest harmony : 
'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen 
Eoving through Fancy's gay futurity ; 



250 POEMS OF 

Her heart liglit dancing to the sounds of pleasure, 

Pleasure of days to come. — Memory too then 

Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, 

Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, 

Scenes never to return.'^ 

Such subjects merit poets used to raise 

The Attic verse harmonious ; but for me 

A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand, 

And bids me strike the strings of dissonance 

With frantic energy. 

'Tis wan Despair I sing ; if sing I can. 

Of him before whose blast the voice of song. 

And mirth, and hope, and happiness, all ily, 

]N'or ever dare return. His notes are heard 

At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood. 

The lacerated son of Angola 

Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind ; 

And, when the awful silence of the night 

Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart. 

He speaks in every conscience-prompted word 

Half uttered, half suppressed — 

'Tis him I sing — Despair — terrific name. 

Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord 

Of timorous terror — discord in the sound : 

For to a theme revolting as is this. 

Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, 

Who love to sit, and catch the soothing sound 

Of lyre JEolian, or the martial bugle. 

Calling the hero to the field of glory. 

And firing him w^ith deeds of high emprise. 

And warlike triumph : but from scenes like mine 

Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard 

Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. 

* Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the "Pleasures of Hope"' and of 
" Memory." 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 251 

Hence, then, soft maids. 
And Avoo the silken zephyr in the bowers 
By Hehconia's sleep-inviting stream : 
For aid like yours I seek not ; tis for powers 
Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine ! 
'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends ! 

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, 
Nurslings of Hell, and beings shunning light, 
And all the myriads of the burning concave ; 
Souls of the damned ;— hither, oh! come and join 
Th' infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing ! 
He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang 
Than all your tortures joined. Sing, sing Despair ! 
Eepeat the sound, and celebrate his power ; 
Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks. 
Till the loud psean ring through hell's high vault, 
And the remotest spirits of the deep 
Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. 



TO THE WIND. 

AT MIDNIGHT. 

Not unfamiliar to mine ear, 

Blasts of the night ! ye howl as now, 
My shuddering casement loud 
With fitful force ye beat. 

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe. 
The howling sweep, the sudden rush ; 
And when the passing gale 
Poured deep the hollow dirge. 



252 POEMS OF 



THE EYE OF DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 
I. 

SiLEXCE of Deatli— portentous calm, 

Those airy forms tliat yonder fly, 
Denote that your void foreruns a storm, 

That the hour of fate is nigh. 
I see, I see, on the dim mist borne. 

The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! 
I see, I see, that ere the morn, 

His spear will forsake its hated rest. 
And the widowed wife of Larrendill will beat her naked 
breast. 

II. 

O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep 

ISTo softly-ruflling zephyrs fly ; 
But nature sleeps a deathless sleep. 

For the hour of battle is nigh. 
]^ot a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak. 

But a creeping stillness reigns around ; 
Except when the raven, with ominous croak, 

On the ear does unwelcomely sound. 
I know, I know, what this silence means, 

I know what the raven saith — 
Strike, oh, ye bards ! the melancholy harp. 

For this is the eve of death. 

III. 

Behold, how along the twilight air 
The shades of our fathers glide ! 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 253 

There Morven fled, with the blood-drenched hair, 

And Cohiia with gray side. 
No gale around its coolness flino-s, 

1 et sadly sigh the gloomy trees ; 
And hark, how the harp's unvisited strings 

Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze ! 
'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 

He will never set more to the brave ; 
Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death— 

For to-morrow he hies to the grave. 



THAN^ATOS. 

Oh ! who would cherish life, 
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay — 

Love this rude world of strife, 
Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day ! 
And where, 'neath outward smiles 
Concealed, the snake lies feeding on its prey, 
Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way. 

And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles ! 
Hateful it is to me. 
Its riotous railings and revengeful strife ; 

I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts, 
Dinning the ear ;— away— away with life ! 
And welcome, oh ! thou silent maid, 
Who in some foggy vault art laid. 
Where never daylight's dazzling ray 
Comes to disturb thy dismal sway ; 
And there amid unwholesome damps doth sleep, 
In such forgetful slumbers deep, 
That all thy senses stupified, 
Are to marble petrified. 



-•^^ POEMS OF 

Sleepy Death, I welcome thee ! 

Sweet are thy calms to misery. 

Poppies I will ask no more, 

ISTor the fatal hellebore ; 

Death is the best, the only cure. 

His are slumbers ever sure. 

Lay me in the Gothic tomb, 

In whose solemn fretted gloom 

I may lie in mouldering state. 

With all the grandeur of the great : 

Over me, magnificent. 

Carve a stately monument ; 

Then thereon my statue lay, 

With hands in attitude to pray. 

And angels serve to hold my head, 

Weeping o'er the father dead. 

Duly too at close of day. 

Let the pealing organ play ; 

And while the harmonious thunders roll, 

Chant a vesper to my soul : 

Thus how sweet my sleep will be, 

Shut out from thoughtful misery ! 



ATHAKATOS. 

Away with death — away 
With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps 

Impervious to the day, 
Where nature sinks into inanity. 
How can the soul desire 
Such hateful nothingness to crave. 
And yield with joy the vital fire 
To moulder in the grave ! 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 255 

Yet mortal life is sad, 
Eternal storms molest its sullen sky ; 

And sorrows ever rife 
Drain the sacred fountain dry — 

Away with mortal life ! 

But, hail the calm reality. 

The seraph Immortality, 

Hail the heavenly bowsers of peace, 

Where all the storms of j^assion cease. 

Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er, 

The wearied spirit weeps no more ; 

But wears the eternal smile of joy. 

Tasting bliss without alloy. 

Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, 

Wliere no passing tempest lowers ; 

But the azure heavens display 

The everlasting smile of day ; 

Where the choral seraph choir, • 

Strike to praise the harmonious lyre ; 

And the spirit sinks to ease, 

Lulled by distant symphonies. 

Oh ! to think of meeting there 

The friends whose srraves received our tear. 

The daughter loved, the wife adored, 

To our widowed arms restored ; 

And all the joys which death did sever, 

Given to us again for ever ! 

Who w^ould cling to wretched life. 

And hug the poisoned thorn of strife — 

Who w^ould not long from earth to fly 

A sluggish senseless lump to lie. 

When the glorious prospect lies 

Full before his raptured eyes ? 



250 POEMS OF 



MUSIC. 

Written between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, with a few subsequent 

verbal alterations. 

Music, all-powerful o'er tlie human mind, 

Can still eacli mental storm, each tumult calm, 

Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined, 
And e'en fierce anger's furious rage disarm. 

At her command the various passions lie ; 

She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace, 
Melts the charmed soul to thrilling ecstasy. 

And bids the jarring world's harsh clangor cease. 

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire 
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise. 

Infuse new ardor, and with youthful fire. 

Urge on the warrior gray with length of days. 

Far better she when with her soothing lyre 

She charms the falchion from the savage grasp. 

And melting into pity vengeful ire. 

Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp. 

"With her in pensive mood I long to roam. 

At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, 

And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam. 
In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline. 

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, 
Of softest flute or reeds harmonic joined. 

With rapture thrilled each worldly passion dies. 
And pleased attention claims the passive mind. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 257 

Soft tlirongli the dell the dying strains retire, 
Then burst majestic in the varied swell; 

ISTow breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre, 
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. 

Romantic sounds ! such is the bliss ve e-ive 

That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul 

With joj I'd yield each sensual wish to live 
Forever 'neath your undefiled control. 

Oh, surely melody from heaven was sent, 

To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, 

To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent. 
And soften down the rugged road of life. 



ODE TO THE HARVEST MOO^. 

Cum rnit imbrifernm ver : 

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta ia viridi stipula lactentia turgent : 

^ * * * * 

Cunct tibi Cererem pubes agresstis adoret. 

Virgil. 

Moon of harvest, herald mild 
Of plenty, rustic labor's child, 
Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam, 
As soft it trembles o'er the stream. 
And gilds the straw-thatched hamlet wide, 
Where innocence and peace reside ; 
'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, 
Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating: sono-. 

Moon of harvest, I do love 
O'er the uplands now to rove, 
17 



258 



POEMS OF 



While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the hlue vault of the sky, 
Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray, 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy wa3\ 

Pleasing 'tis, modest moon ! 
l!^ow the night is at her noon, 
'^eath thy sway to musing lie, 
♦ While around the zephyrs sigh. 
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat. 
Ripened hy the summer's heat ; 
Picturing all the rustic's joy 
When boundless plenty greets his eye, 

And thinking soon. 

Oh, modest moon ! 
How many a female eye will roam 

Along the road, 

To see the load. 
The last dear load of harvest home. 

Storms and tempests, floods and rains. 

Stern despoilers of the plains, 

Hence away, the season flee, 

Foes to light-heart jollity ; 

May no winds careering high, 

Drive the clouds along the sky ; 
But may all nature smile with asj)ect boon, 
Wlien in the heavens thou show'stthy face, oh, Harvest 
Moon ! 

'^eath yon lowly roof he lies. 

The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes ; 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 259 

He dreams of crowded barns, and round 

The yard lie hears the flail resound ; 

Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 

His visionary views of joy : 
God of the winds ! oh, hear his humble prayer, 
And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blust'ring 
whirlwind spare. 

Sons of luxury, to you 

Leave I sleep's dull power to woo : 

Press ye still the downy bed. 

While fev'rish dreams surround your head ; 

I will seek the woodland glade, 

Penetrate the thickest shade. 

Wrapt in contemplation's dreams. 

Musing high on holy themes, 

While on the gale 

Shall softly sail 
The nightingale's enchanting tune. 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 



THE SHIPWEECKED SOLITARY'S SOXG, 

TO THE NIGHT. 

Thou, spirit of the spangled night ! 
I woo thee from the watch-tower high, 
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark 
Of lonely mariner. 

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, 
The distant main is moaning low ; 
Come, let us sit and weave a song — 
A melancholy song ! 



260 POEMS OF 



Sweet is the scented gale of morn, 
An\d sweet tlie noontide's fervid beam, 
But sweeter far the solemn calm 

That marks thy mournful reign. 

I've passed here many a lonely year, 
And never human voice have heard : 
I've passed here many a lonely year, 
A solitary man. 

And I have lingered in the shade, 
From sultry noon's hot beam. And I 
Have knelt before my wicker door. 
To sing my ev'ning song. 

And I have hailed th^ gray morn high, 
On the blue mountain's misty brow, 
And try to tune my little reed 
To hymns of harmony. 

But never could I tune my reed. 
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet. 
As when upon the ocean shore 

I hailed thy star-beam mild. 

The day-spring brings not joy to me. 
The moon it whispers not of peace ; 
But oh ! when darkness robes the heav'ns, 
My woes are mixed with joy. 

And then I talk, and often think 
Aerial voices answer me ; 
And oh ! I am not then alone — 
A solitary man. 



H EN EY KIR KE WHITE. 261 

And when the blust'ring winter winds 
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
I lay me on my lonely mat, 

And pleasant are my dreams. 

And Fancy gives me back my wife ; 
And Fancy gives me back my child ; 
She gives me back my little home, 
And all its placid joys. 

Then hateful is the morning hour, 
That calls me from the dream of bliss. 
To find myself still lone, and hear 
The same dull sounds again. 

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea. 
The whisp'ring of the boding trees. 
The brook's eternal flow, and oft 

The Condor's hollow scream. 



PROSE COMPOSITIONS. 



PROSE COMPOSITIONS. 



REMAEKS 0^ THE EiTGLISH POETS. 

IMITATIONS. 

The sublimity and unafFected beauty of the sacred 
writings are in no instance more conspicuous than in 
the following verses of the 18th Psalm : — 

" He bowed the heavens also and came down : and darkness was under 
his feet." 

" And he rode upon a cherub and did fly : yea he did fly upon the 
wings of the wind." 

I^one of our better versions have been able to pre- 
serve the original graces of these verses. That wretched 
one of Thomas Sternhold, however (which, to the dis- 
grace and manifest detriment of religious worship, is 
generally used), has, in this solitary instance, and then 
perhaps by accident, given us the true spirit of the 
Psalmist, and has surpassed not only Merrick, but even 
the classic Buchanan."^ This version is as follows : — 

* That the reader may judge for himself, Buchanan's translation is sub- 
joined : — 

" Utque suum dominum terrae demittat in orbem 
Leniter inclinat jussum fastigia ccElum ; 
Succedunt pedibus fuscse cahginis umbrae; 
Ille vehens curru volucri, cui flammeus ales 
Lora tenens levibus ventorum adremigat alis 
Se circum fulvo nebularum involvit amictu, 
PrEetenditque cavis piceas in nubibus undas," 

This is somewhat too harsh and prosaic, and there is an unpleasant caco 
phony in the terminations of the fifth and sixth lines. 



266 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OP 

" The Lord descended from above, 
And bowed the heavens high, 
And underneath his feet he cast 
The darkness of the sky. 

" On cherubs and on cherubims 
Full royally he rode, 
And on the wings of mighty winds 
Came flying all abroad." 

Diyden honored these verses with, very high com- 
mendation, and, in the following lines of his Annus 
Mirabilis, has apparently imitated them, in preference 
to the original. 

" The duke less numerous, but in courage more. 
On wings of all the winds to combat flies." 

And in his Ceyx and Alcyone, from Ovid, he has — 

" And now sublime she rides upon the wind," 

which is probably imitated, as well as most of the fol- 
lowing, not from Sternhold, but the original. Thus 
Pope, 

" Not God alone in the still calm we find, 
He mounts the storm and rides upon the wind." 

And Addison — 

" Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm." 

The unfortunate Chatterton has — 

" And rides upon the pinions of the wind." 

And Gray — 

^' With arms sublime that float upon the air." 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 267 

Few poets of eminence have less incurred tlie charge 
of plagiarism than Milton ; yet many instances might 
be adduced of similarity of idea and language with the 
Scripture, which are certainly more than coincidences ; 
and some of these I shall, in a future number, present 
to your readers. Thus the present passage in the 
Psalmist was in all probability in his mind when he 
wrote — 

" And with mighty wings outspread, 
Dove-like, sat'st brooding on the vast abyss." 

Par. Lost, 1. 20, b.i. 



The third verse of the 104th Psalm 



'' He maketh the clouds his chariot, and walketh upon the wings of the 
wind," — 

is evidently taken from the beforementioned verses in 
the 18th Psalm, on which it is perhaps an improvement. 
It has also been imitated by two of our first poets, Shak- 
speare and Thomson. The former in Eomeo and Juliet, 

" Bestrides the lazy paced clouds. 
And sails upon the bosom of the air." 

The latter in Winter, 1. 199— 

" 'Till Nature's King who oft 
Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone, 
And on the wings of the careering winds 
Walks dreadfully serene." 

As these imitations have not before, I believe, been 
noticed, they cannot fail to interest the lovers of polite 
letters ; and they are such as at least will amuse your 
readers in general. If the sacred writings were atten- 
tively perused, we should find innumerable passages 
from which our best modern poets have drawn their 



268 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

most admired ideas ; and the enumerations of these in- 
stances would perhaps attract the attention of many 
persons to those volumes, which they now perhaps think 
to contain everything tedious and disgusting, but which, 
on the contrary, they would find replete with interest, 
beauty, and true sublimity. 

sternhold and hopkins. 

Mr. Editor, 

In your "Mirror" for July, a Mr. William Toone has 
offered a few observations on a paper of mine, in a pre- 
ceding number, containing remarks on the versions and 
imitations of the ninth and tenth verses of the 18th 
Psalm, to which I think it necessary to offer a few words 
by way of reply ; as they not only put an erroneous con- 
struction on certain passages of that paper, but are other- 
wise open to material objection. 

The object of Mr. Toone, in some parts of his ob- 
servations, appears to have been to refute something 
which he fancied I had advanced, tending to establish 
the general merit of Sternhold and Hopkins' translation 
of the Psalms : but he might have saved himself this 
unnecessary trouble, as I have decidedly condemned it 
as mere doggrel, still preserved in our churches to the 
detriment of religion. And the version of the passage 
in question is adduced as a brilliant, though probably 
accidental, exception to the general character of the 
work. What necessity, therefore, your correspondent 
could see for " hoping that I should think ivith him, that 
the sooner the old version of the Psalms was consigned to 
oblivion, the better it would be for rational devotion,'' I am 
perfectly at a loss to imagine. 

This concluding sentence of Mr. Toone's paper, which 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. -^9 

I consider as introduced merely by way of rounding the 
period, and making a graceful exit, needs no further ani- 
madversion. I shall therefore proceed to examine the 
objections of the "worthy clergyman of the Church of 
England," to these verses cited by your correspondent, 
by which he hopes to prove, that Dryden, Knox, and 
the numerous other eminent men who have expressed 
their admiration thereof, to be little better than idiots. 
The first is this : 

"Qheruhim is the plural for Cheriib ; but our versioner, 
by adding an s to it, has rendered them both plurals." 
By adding an s to what ? If the pronoun it refer to 
cherubim, as according to the construction of the sen- 
tence it really does, the whole objection is nonsense. 
But the worthy gentleman, no doubt, meant to say, that 
Sternhold had rendered them both plurals, by the ad- 
dition of an s to cherub. Even in this sense, however, 
I conceive the charge to be easily obviated ; for, though 
cherubim is doubtless usually considered as the plural of 
cherub, yet the two words are frequently so used in the 
Old Testament as to prove, that they were often applied 
to separate ranks of beings. One of these, which I shall 
cite, will dispel all doubt on the subject. 

" And within the oracle he made two chenibims of olive tree, each ten 
cubits high." — 1 Kings, v. 23, chap. vii. 

The other objection turns upon a word with which it 
is not necessary for me to interfere ; for I did not quote 
these verses as instances of the merit of Sternhold, or 
his version, I only asserted, that the lines which I then 
copied, viz., 

" The Lord descended from above," &c. 

were truly noble and sublime. Whether, therefore, 
Sternhold wrote all the winds (as asserted by your corre- 



2"0 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OP 

sponclent, in order to furnisli room for objection) or mighty 
tvinds, is of no import. But if this really be a subsequent 
alteration, I think, at least, there is no improvement ; 
for when we conceive the winds as assembling from all 
quarters, at the omnipotent command of the Deity, and 
bearing him with their united forces from the heavens, 
we have a more sublime image, than when we see him 
as flying merely on mighty winds, or as driving his team 
(or troop) of angels on a strong tempest's rapid wing, 
with most amazing siviftness as elegantly represented by 
Brady and Tate."^ 

I differ from your correspondent's opinion that these 
verses, so far from possessing sublimity, attract the 
reader merely by their rumbling sound. And he.re it may 
not be amiss to observe, that the true sublime does not 
consist of high-sounding words, or pompous magnifi- 
cence ; on the contrary, it mo^t frequently appears clad 
in native dignity and simplicity, without art and without 
ornament. 

The most elegant critic of antiquity, Longinus, in his 
treatise on the sublime, adduces the following passage 
from the book of Genesis, as possessing that quality in 
an eminent degree — 

'' God said let there be light, and there was light: — Let the earth be, 
and the earth was"" — 

* How any man, enjoying the use of his senses, could prefer the con- 
temptible version of Brady and Tate of this verse to Sternhold, is to me 
inexplicable. The epithets which are introduced would have disgraced a 
schoolboy, and the majestic imagery of the original is sacrificed to make 
room for tinsel and fustian. 

" The chariot of the King of kings, 
Which active troops of angels drew^ 
On a strong tempest's rapid wings 
With most amazing swiftness flew.'''' 

f The critic apparently quoted from memory, for we may search in vain 
for the latter part of this sentence. 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 271 

From wliat I have advanced on this subject, I would 
not have it inferred, that I conceive the version of Stern- 
hold and Hopkins, generally speaking, to be superior to 
that of Brady and Tate ; for, on the contrary, in almost 
every instance, except that above-mentioned, the latter 
possesses an indubitable right to pre-eminence. Our 
language, however, cannot yet boast one version pos- 
sessing the true spirit of the original ; some are beneath 
contempt, and the best has scarcely attained mediocrity. 
Your correspondent has quoted some verses from Tate, 
in triumph, as comparatively excellent ; but, in my opi- 
nion, they are also instances of our general failure in 
sacred poetry : they abound in those amUtiosa ornamenta 
which do well to please women and children, but which 
disgust the man of taste. 

To the imitations already noticed of this passage, 
permit me to add the following — 

" But various Iris Jove's commands to bear, 
Speeds on the wings of winds througli liquid air." 

Pope's Iliad, b. ii. 

" Miguel cruzando os pelagos do vento." 

Carlos Reduzido, canto i. 

By Pedro de Azevedo Tojal, an ancient Portuguese poet 
of some merit. 



REMAEKS OK THE ENGLISH POETS. 

WARTON. 

The poems of Thomas Warton are replete with a sub- 
limity and richness of imagery, which seldom fail to en- 
chant : every line presents new beauties of idea, aided by 



272 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

all tlie magic of animated diction. From the inexhaustible 
stores of figurative language, majesty, and sublimity, 
which the ancient English poets afford, he has culled 
some of the richest and the sweetest flowers. But, un- 
fortunately, in thus making use of the beauties of other 
writers, he has been too unsparing; for the greater 
number of his ideas, and nervous epithets, cannot, strictly 
speaking, be called his own ; therefore, however we may 
be charmed by the grandeur of his images, or the felicity 
of his expression, we must still bear in our recollection, 
that we cannot with justice bestow upon him the highest 
eulogium of genius — that of originality. 

It has, with much justice, been observed, that Pope 
and his imitators have introduced a species of refine- 
ment into our language, which Has banished that nerve 
and pathos for which Milton had rendered it eminent. 
Harmonious modulations, and unvarying exactness of 
measure, totally precluding sublimity and fire, have 
reduced our fashionable poetry to mere sing-song. But 
Thomas "Warton, whose taste was unvitiated by the frivo- 
lities of the day, immediately saw the intrinsic worth of 
what the world then slighted. He saw that the ancient 
poets contained a fund of strength, and beauty of imagery 
as well as diction, which in the hands of genius would 
shine forth with redoubled lustre. Entirely rejecting, 
therefore, modern niceties, he extracted the honied sweets 
from these beautiful, though neglected flowers. Every 
grace of sentiment, every poetical term, which a false taste 
had rendered obsolete, was by him revived and made to 
grace his own ideas; and though many will condemn 
him as guilty of plagiarism, yet few will be able to with- 
hold the tribute of their praise. 

The peculiar forte of Warton seems to have been in 
the sombre descriptive. The wild airy flights of a Spenser, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



273 



tlie ''chivalrous feats of barons bold," or the "cloistered 
solitude," were the favorites of his mind. Of this his 
bent, he informs us in the following lines : — 

" Throiigli Pope's soft song thougli all the graces breathe, 
And happiest art adorns his attic page, 
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, 
As at the root of mossy trunk reclined, 
In magic Spenser's wildly warbled song 
I see deserted Una wander wide 
Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths. 
Weary, forlorn ; than were the fated* fair 
Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames, 
Launches in all the lustre of brocade. 
Amid the splendors of the laughing sun ; 
The gay description palls upon the sense 
And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss." 

Pleasures op Melancholy. 

Warton's mind was formed for the grand and the 
sublime. "Were his imitations less verbal and less 
numerous, f should be led to imagine, that the peculiar 
beauties of his favorite authors had sunk so impressively 
into his mind, that he had unwittingly appropriated them 
as his own ; but they are in general such as to preclude 
the idea. 

To the metrical, and other intrinsic ornaments of style, 
he appears to have paid due attention. If we meet with 
an uncouth expression, we immediately perceive that it 
is peculiarly appropriate, and that no other term could 
have been made use of vdth so happy an effect. His 
poems abound with alliterative lines. Indeed, this figure 
seems to have been his favorite ; and he studiously seeks 
every opportunity to introduce it : however, it must be 
acknowledged, that his " daisy-dappled dale," &c., occur 
too frequently. 

* Belinda. Vide Pope's " Rape of the Lock."' 
18 



274 PEOSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

The poem on wMcli Warton's fame (as a poet) princi- 
pally rests, is the ''Pleasures of Melancholy," and (not- 
withstanding the perpetual recurrence of ideas which are 
borrowed from other poets) there are few pieces which 
I have perused with more exquisite gratification. The 
gloomy tints with which he overcasts his descriptions ; 
his highly figurative language ; and, above all, the an- 
tique air which the poem wears, convey the most 
sublime ideas to the mind. 

Of the other pieces of this poet, some are excellent, 
and they all rise above mediocrity. In his sonnets he has 
succeeded wonderfully; that written at Winslade, and 
the one to the river Lodon, are peculiarly beautiful, and 
that to Mr. Gray is most elegantly turned. The " Ode 
on the approach of Summer," is replete with genius and 
poetic fire : and even over the Birthday odes, which he 
wrote as poet laureat, his genius has cast energy and 
beauty. His humorous pieces and satires abound in wit : 
and, in short, taking him altogether, he is an ornament 
to our country and our language, and it is to be regretted, 
that the profusion with which he has made use of the 
beauties of other poets, should have given room for 
censure. 

I should have closed my short, and I fear jejune essay 
on Warton, but that I wished to hint to your truly elegant 
and acute Stamford correspondent, Octavius Gilchrist 
(whose future remarks on Warton's imitations I await 
with considerable impatience), that the passage in the 
"Pleasures of Melancholy"— 

^^ Or ghostly shape, 
At distance seen, invites, with" beckoning hand, 
Thy lonesome steps," 

which he supposes to be taken from the following in 
" Comus," 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 275 

" Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, 
And airy tongues that syllable men's names," 

is more probably taken from the commencement of Pope's 
elegy on an unfortunate lady— 

" What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade 
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ?" 

The origmal idea was possibly taken from "Comus'" 
by Pope, from whom Warton, to all appearance again 
borrowed it. 

Were the similarity of the passage in Gray to that in 
Warton less striking and verbal, I should be inchned to 
think it only a remarkable coincidence; for Gray's 
biographer informs us, that he commenced his elegy in 
1742, and that it was completed in 1744, being the year 
which he particularly devoted to the Muses, though he 
did not "put the finishing stroke to it'' until 1750 The 
"Pleasures of Melancholy" were published in 4to, in 
1747. Therefore Gray might take his third stanza from 
Warton ; but it is rather extraordinary that the third stanza 
of a poem should be taken from another published five 
years after that poem was begun and three after it was 
understood to be completed; one circumstance, however 
seems to render the supposition of its being a plagiarism 
somewhat more probable, which is, that the stanza in 
question is not essential to the connection of the pre- 
ceding and antecedent verses; therefore it might have 
been added by Gray, when he put ih^- finishing stroke- 
to his piece in 1750. 



CUESOEY EEMAEKS 0^ TEAGEDY. 

The pleasure which is derived from the representation 
o± an affecting tragedy has often been the subject of 



276 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

inquiry among philosophical critics, as a singular phe- 
nomenon. That the mind should receive gratification 
from the excitement of those passions which are in them- 
selves painful, is really an extraordinary paradox, and it 
is the more inexplicahle since, when the same means are 
employed to rouse the more pleasing affections, no 
adequate effect is produced. 

In order to solve this problem, many ingenious hypo- 
theses have been invented. The Abbe Du Bos tells us that 
the mind has such a natural antipathy to a state of listless- 
ness and languor, as to render the transition from it to a 
state of exertion, even though by rousing passions in them- 
selves painful, as in the instance of a tragedy, a positive 
pleasure. Monsieur Fontenelle has given us a more satis- 
facory account. He tells us that pleasure and pain, two 
sentiments so different in themselves, do not differ so 
much in their cause ; — that pleasure carried too far, be- 
comes pain, and pain, a little moderated becomes plea- 
sure. Hence that the pleasure we derive from tragedy is 
a pleasing sorrow, a modulated pain. David Hume, 
who has also written upon this subject, unites the two 
systems, with this addition, that the painful emotions 
excited by the representation of melancholy scenes are 
further tempered, and the pleasure is proportionably 
heightened by the eloquence displayed in the relation, 
the art shown in collecting the pathetic circumstances, 
and the judgment evinced in their happy disposition. 

But even now I do not conceive the difficulty to be 
satisfactorily done away. Admitting the postulatum 
which the Abbe Du Bos assumes, that languor is so dis- 
agreeable to the mind as to render its removal positive 
pleasure, to be true ; yet, when we recollect, as Mr. Hume 
has before observed, that were the same objects of distress 
which give us pleasure in tragedy set before our eyes in 



HENRY KIRK E AV KITE. 277 

reality, though they would eftectually remove listlessness, 
they would excite the most unfeigned uneasiness, we 
shall hesitate in applying this solution in its full extent 
to the present subject. M. Fontenelle's reasoning is 
much more conclusive ; yet I think he errs egregiously in 
his premises, if he means to imply that any modulation 
of pain is pleasing, because, in whatever degree it may 
be, it is still pain, and remote from either ease or positive 
pleasure : and if by moderated pain he means an uneasy 
sensation abated, though not totally banished, he is no 
less mistaken in the application of them to the subject 
before us. Pleasure may very well be conceived to be 
painful when carried to excess, because it there becomes 
exertion, and is inconvenient. We may also form some 
idea of a pleasure arising from moderated pain, or the 
transition from the disagreeable to the less disagreeable ; 
but this cannot in any wise be applied to the gratification 
we derive from a tragedy, for there no superior degree 
of pain is left for an inferior. As to Mr. Hume's ad- 
dition of the pleasure we derive from the art of the poet, 
for the introduction of which he has written his whole 
dissertation on tragedy, it merits little consideration. 
The self-recollection necessary to render this art a source 
of gratification must weaken the illusion, and whatever 
weakens the illusion, diminishes the efiect. 

In these systems it is taken for granted that all those 
passions are excited which are represented in the drama. 
This I conceive to have been the primary cause of error, 
for to me it seems very probable that the only passion 
or aftection which is excited is that of sympathy, which 
partakes of the pleasing nature of pity and compassion, 
and includes in it so much as is pleasing of hope and 
apprehension, joy and grief. 

The pleasure we derive from the afflictions of a friend 



278 PEOSB COMPOSITIONS OF 

is proverbial — every person has felt, and wondered why 
lie felt, something soothing in the participation of the 
sorrows of those dear to his heart ; and he might, with 
as much reason, have questioned why he was delighted 
with the melancholy scenes of tragedy. Both pleasures 
are equally singular ; they both arise from the same source. 
Both originate in sympathy. 

It would seem natural that an accidental spectator of a 
cause in a court of justice, with which he is perfectly un- 
acquainted, would remain an uninterested auditor of what 
was going forward. Experience tells us, however, the 
exact contrary. He immediately, even before he is well 
acquainted with the merits of the case, espouses one side 
of the question, to which he uniformly adheres, partici- 
pates in all its advantages, and sympathizes in its success. 
There is no denying that the interest this man takes in 
the business is a source of pleasure to him ; but we can- 
not suppose one of the parties in the cause, though his 
interest must be infinitely more lively, to feel an equal 
pleasure, because the painful passions are in him really 
roused, while in the other sympathy alone is excited, 
which is in itself pleasing. It is pretty much the same with 
the spectator of a tragedy. And if the sympathy is the 
more pleasing, it is because the actions are so much the 
more calculated to entrap the attention, and the object so 
much the more worthy. The pleasure is heightened also 
in both instances by a kind of intuitive recollection, 
which never forsakes the spectator ; that no bad conse- 
quences will result to him from the action he is surveying. 
This recollection is the more predominant in the specta- 
tor of a tragedy, as it is impossible in any case totally to 
banish from his memory that the scenes are fictitious 
and illusive. In real life we always advert to futurity, 
and endeavor to draw inferences of the probable conse- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 279 

quences ; but the moment we take off our minds from 
what is passing on the stage to reasonings thereupon, the 
illusion is dispelled, and it again recurs that it is all fiction. 
If Ave compare the degrees of pleasure we derive from 
the perusal of a novel and the representation of a tragedy, 
we shall observe a wonderful disparity. In both we feel 
an interest, in both sympathy is excited. But in the 
one, things are merely related to us as having passed, 
which it is not attempted to persuade us ever did in 
reality happen, and from which, therefore, we never can 
deceive ourselves into the idea that any consequences 
whatever will result ; in the other, on the contrary, the 
actions themselves .pass before our eyes ; we are not 
tempted to ask ourselves whether they did ever happen ; 
we see them happen, we are the witnesses of them, and 
were it not for the meliorating circumstances before- 
mentioned, the sympathy would become so powerful as 
to be in the highest degree painful. 

In tragedy, therefore, everything which can strengthen 
the illusion should be introduced, for there are a thou- 
sand drawbacks on the effect which it is impossible to 
remove, and which have always so great a force, as to 
put it out of the power of the poet to excite sympathy 
in a too painful degree. Everything that is improbable, 
everything which is out of the common course of nature 
should, for this reason, be avoided, as nothing will so 
forcibly remind the spectator of the unrealness of the 
illusion. 

It is a mistaken idea that we sympathize sooner with 
the distresses of kings and illustrious personages than 
with those of common life. Men are, in fact, more in- 
clined to commiserate the sufferings of their equals than 
of those whom they cannot but regard, rather with awe 
than pity, as superior beings, and to take an interest in 



280 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

incidents wMcb. miglit liave happened to tliemselves, 
sooner tlian in tliose remote from tlieir own rank and 
habits. It is for this reason that ^schykis censnres Eu- 
ripides for introducing his kings in rags, as if they were 
more to be compassionated than other men. 

Upayrov fjJv ron^ ^aatXebovraq pdy.la;x~t.(jya)v, Zv kXsttvoi 
Tolq avOpd)-oiq ipavjovx' €ivai. 

Some will, perhaps, imagine that it is in the power of 
the poet to excite our sympathy in too powerful a degree, 
because, at the representation of certain scenes, the spec- 
tators are frequently affected so as to make them shriek 
out with terror. But this is not sympathy ; it is horror, 
it is disgust, and is only witnessed when some act is 
committed on the stage so cruel and bloody, as to make 
it impossible to contemplate it even in idea without 
horror. v 

" Nee pueros coram populo Medea trucidet, 
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus." 

Hor. Ars Poet., 1. 185. 

It is for this reason, also, that many fine German 
dramas cannot be brought on the English stage, such as 
the Eobbers of Schiller, and the Adelaide of Wulfingen, 
by Kotzebue ; they are too horrible to be read without 
violent emotions, and Horace will tell you what an im- 
mense difference there is in point of effect between a 
relation and a representation. 

" Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem, 

Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quEe 

Ipsi sibi tradit spectator." 

" Ars Poet, 1. 180. 

I shall conclude these desultory remarks, strung to- 
gether at random, without order or connection, by 



HENKY KIRKE WHITE. 



281 



observing what little foundation there is for the general 
outcry in the literary world against the prevalence of 
German dramas on our stage. Did they not possess un- 
common merit, they would not meet with such general 
approbation. Fashion has but a partial influence, but 
they have drawn tears from an audience in a barn as 
well as in a theatre royal ; they have been welcomed 
with plaudits in every little market town in the three 
kingdoms as well as in the metropolis. E"ature speaks 
but one language ; she is alike intelligible to the peasant 
and the man of letters, the tradesman and the man of 
fashion. While the Muse of Germany shall continue to 
produce such plays as the Stranger and Lover's Yows,* 
who will not rejoice that translation is able to naturalize 
her eflbrts in our language ? 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— Xo. I. 

" There is a mood 
(I sing not to the vacant and the young), 
There is a kindly mood of Melancholy, 
That wings the soul and points her to the skies." 

Dyer. 

Philosophers have divested themselves of their na- 
tural apathy, and poets have risen above themselves, in 
descanting on the pleasures of Melancholy. There is 
no mind so gross, no understanding so uncultivated, as 
to be incapable, at certain moments, and amid certain 
combinations, of feeling that sublime influence upon the 
spirits, which steals the soul from the petty anxieties of 
the world, 

" And fits it to hold converse with the gods." 

* I speak of these plays only as adapted to our stage by the elegant pens 
of Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Inchbald. 



282 PROSE, COMPOSITIONS OF 

I must confess, if such tliere be wlio never felt tlie 
divine abstraction, I envy tbem not tlieir insensibility. 
For my own part, it is from the indulgence of tliis 
soothing power that I derive the most exquisite of grati- 
fications. At the calm hour of moonlight, amid all the 
sublime serenity, the dead stillness of the night, or when 
the howling storm rages in the heavens, the rain pelts 
on my roof, and the winds whistle through the crannies 
of my apartment, I feel the divine mood of melancholy 
upon me ; I imagine myself placed upon an eminence, 
above the crowds who pant below in the dusty tracks of 
wealth and honor. The black catalogue of crimes and 
of vice, the sad tissue of wretchedness and woe, passes 
in review before me, and I look down upon man with 
an eye of pity and commiseratiouj Though the scenes 
which I survey be mournful, and the ideas they excite 
equally sombre, though the tears gush as I contemplate 
them, and my heart feels heavy with the sorrowful emo- 
tions they inspire, yet are they not unaccompanied with 
sensations of the purest and most ecstatic bliss. 

It is to the spectator alone that melancholy is forbid- 
ding ; in herself she is soft and interesting, and capable 
of afibrding pure and unalloyed delight. Ask the lover 
why he muses by the side of the purling brook, or 
plunges into the deep gloom of the forest. Ask the un- 
fortunate why he seeks the still shades of solitude, or 
the man who feels the pangs of disappointed ambition, 
why he retires into the silent walks of seclusion, and he 
will tell you that he derives a pleasure therefrom which 
nothing else can impart. It is the delight of melan- 
choly ; but the melancholy of these beings is as far 
removed from that of the philosopher as are the nar- 
row and contracted complaints of selfishness from the 
mournful regrets of expansive philanthropy ; as are the 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 283 

desponding intervals of insanity from the occasional de- 
pressions of benevolent sensibility. 

The man who has attained that calm equanimity which 
qualifies him to look down upon the petty evils of life 
with indifference, who can so far conquer the weakness 
of nature as to consider the sufferings of the individual 
of little moment, when put in competition with the 
welfare of the community, is alone the true philosopher. 
His melancholy is not excited by the retrospect of his 
own misfortunes ; it has its rise from the contemplation 
of the miseries incident to life and the evils which 
obtrude themselves upon society and interrupt the har- 
mony of nature. It would be arrogating too much merit 
to myself to assert that I have a just claim to the title of 
a philosopher, as it is here defined ; or to say that the 
speculations of my melancholy hours are equally disin- 
terested ; be this as it may, I have determined to present 
my solitary efiusions to the public : they will at least 
have the merit of novelty to recommend them, and may 
possibly, in some measure, be instrumental in the melio- 
ration of the human heart or the correction of false pre- 
possessions. This is the height of my ambition : this 
once attained, and my end will be fully accomplished. 
One thing I can safely promise, though far from being 
the coinages of a heart at ease, they will contain neither 
the querulous captiousness of misfortune nor the bitter 
taunts of misanthropy. Society is a chain of which I 
am merely a link ; all men are my associates in error, 
and though some may have gone farther in the ways of 
guilt than myself, yet it is not in me to sit in judgment 
upon them : it is mine to treat them rather in pity than 
in anger, to lament their crimes, and to weep over their 
sufferings. As these papers will be the amusement of 
those hours of relaxation when the mind recedes from 



284 



PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



the vexations of business, and sinks into itself for a mo- 
ment of solitary ease, rather than the efforts of literary 
leisure, the reader will not expect to find in them un- 
usual elegance of language or studied propriety of style. 
In the short and necessary intervals of cessation from 
the anxieties of an irksome employment, one finds little 
time to be solicitous aboat expression. If, therefore, the 
fervor of a glowing mind express itself in too warm and 
luxuriant a manner for the cold ear of dull propriety, let 
the fastidious critic find a selfish pleasure in descrying 
it. To criticism melancholy is indifferent. If learning 
cannot be better employed than in declaiming against 
the defects while it is insensible to the beauties of a 
performance, well may we exclaim with the poet : — 

i2 sd/j.i<^rjq ayvoia wq dfJMtj.6q r:^ ^T 
Ora'^ 01 <j'j 00 e^oiq ovriog a'oux. ayvoei. 



MELAN^CHOLY HOURS.— IsTo. 11. 

" But (wel-a-day) who loves the Muses now ? 
Or helpes the climber of the sacred hyll ? 
None leane to them, but strive to disalow 
All heavenly dewes the goddesses distill." 

Wm. Browne's Shepheard's Pipe. Eg. 5. 

It is a melancholy reflection, and a reflection which 
often sinks heavily on my soul, that the sons of Genius 
generally seem predestined to encounter the rudest storms 
of adversity, to struggle, unnoticed, with poverty and mis- 
fortune. The annals of the world present us with many 
corroborations of this remark ; and, alas ! who can tell how 
many unhappy beings, who might have shone with distin- 
guished lustre among the stars which illumine our hemi- 
sphere, may have sunk unknown beneath the pressure of 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 285 

untoward circumstances; who knows how many may 
have shrunk, with all the exquisite sensibility of genius, 
from the rude and riotous discord of the world into the 
peaceful slumbers of death. Among the number of 
those whose talents might have elevated them to the first 
rank of eminence, but who have been overwhelmed with 
the accumulated ills of poverty and misfortune, I do not 
hesitate to rank a young man whom I once accounted it 
my greatest happiness to be able to call my friend. 

Charles Waneley was the only son of an humble vil- 
lage rector, who just lived to give him a liberal education 
and then left him unprovided for and unprotected, to 
struggle through the world as well as he could. With 
a heart glowing with the enthusiasm of poetry and ro- 
mance, with a sensibility the most exquisite, and with 
an indignant pride which swelled in his veins, and told 
him he was a man, my friend found himself cast upon 
the wide world, at the age of sixteen, an adventurer, 
without fortune and without connection. As his indepen- 
dent spirit could not brook the idea of being a burden 
to those whom his father had taught him to consider 
only as allied by blood, and not by affection, he looked 
about him for a situation, which could insure to him, by 
his own exertions, an honorable competence. It was 
not long before such a situation offered, and Charles pre- 
cipitately articled himself to an attorney, without giving 
himself time to consult his own incUnations, or the dis- 
position of his master. The transition from Sophocles 
and Euripides, Theocritus and Ovid, to Finche and 
"Wood, Coke and "Wynne, was striking and difficult; 
but Charles applied himself with his wonted ardor to his 
new study, as considering it not only his interest but his 
duty so to do. It was not long, however, before he dis- 
covered that he disliked the law, that he disliked his 



286 PROSECOMPOSITIONS OF 

situation, and that lie despised his master. The fact was, 
my friend had many mortifications to endure which his 
haughty soul could ill brook. The attorney to whom 
he was articled was one of those narrow-minded beings 
who consider wealth as alone entitled to respect. He 
had discovered that his clerk was very poor and very des- 
titute of friends, and thence he very naturally concluded, 
that he might insult him with impunity. It appears, 
however, that he was mistaken in his calculations. I one 
night remarked that my friend was unusually thoughtful. 
I ventured to ask him whether he had met with anything 
particular to ruffle his spirits. He looked at me for some 
moments significantly, then, as if roused to fury by the 
recollection — " I have," said he, vehemently, " I have, I 
have 1 He has insulted me grossly,- and I will bear it no 
longer." He now walked up and down the room with 
visible emotion. Presently he sat down. He seemed 
more composed. " My friend," said he, " I have endured 
much from this man. I conceived it my duty to forbear, 
but I have forborne until forbearance is blamable, and by 
the Almighty, I will never again endure what I have 
endured this day ! But not only this man ; every one 
thinks he may treat me with contumely, because I am 
poor and friendless. But I am a man, and will no 
longer tamely submit to be the sport of fools and the foot- 
ball of caprice. In this spot of earth, though it gave me 
birth, I can never taste of ease. Here I must be mise- 
rable. The principal end of man is to arrive at happi- 
ness. Here I can never attain it ; and here, therefore, 
I will no longer remain. My obligations to the rascal 
who calls himself my master are cancelled by his abuse 
of the authority I rashly placed in his hands. I have no 
relations to bind me to this particular place." The tears 
started in his eyes as he spoke. " I have no tender ties 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



287 



to bid me stay, and why do I stay ? The world is all be- 
fore me. My inclination leads me to travel ; I will pur- 
sue that inclination ; and, perhaps, in a strange land I 
may find that repose which is denied to me in the place 
of my birth. My finances, it is true, are ill able to sup- 
port the expenses of travelling : but what then — Gold- 
smith, my friend !" with rising enthusiasm, ^' Goldsmith 
traversed Europe on foot, and I am as hardy as Gold- 
smith. Yes, I will go, and, perhaps, ere long, I may sit 
me down on some towering mountain, and exclaim with 
him, while a hundred realms lie in perspective before me, 

^^ Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine." 

It was in vain I entreated him to reflect maturely ere 
he took so bold a step ; he was deaf to my importunities, 
and the next morning I received a letter informing me 
of his departure. He was observed about sunrise, sitting 
on the stile at ^the top of an eminence, which com- 
manded a prospect of the surrounding country, pensively 
looking towards the village. I could divine his emotions 
on thus casting, probably, a last look on his native place. 
The neat white parsonage house, with the honeysuckle 
mantling on its wall, I knew would receive his last 
glance ; and the image of his father would present itself 
to his mind, with a melancholy pleasure, as he was thus 
hastening, a solitary individual, to plunge himself into 
the crowds of the world, deprived of that fostering hand 
which would otherwise have been his support and guide. 

From this period Charles Waneley was never heard of 

at L ; and as his few relations cared little about him, 

in a short time it was almost forgotten that such a being 
had ever been in existence. 

About ^YQ years had elapsed from this period, when 



288 



PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



my occasions led me to the Continent. I will confess, 
I was not without a romantic hope that I might again 
meet with my lost friend; and that often, with that 
idea, I scrutinized the features of the passengers. One 
fine moonlight night as I was strolling down the grand 
Italian Strada di Toledo, at Naples, I observed a crowd 
assembled round a man, who, with impassioned gestures, 
seemed to be vehemently declaiming to the multitude. It 
was one of the Improvisatori, who recite extempore verses 
in the streets of I^aples, for what money they can collect 
from the hearers. I stopped to listen to the man's metri- 
cal romance, and had remained in the attitude of atten- 
tion some time, when, happening to turn round, I beheld 
a person very shabbily dressed, steadfastly gazing at me. 
The moon shone full in his face. I- thought his features 
were familiar to me. He was pale and emaciated, and 
his countenance bore marks of the deepest dejection. 
Yet, amidst all these changes, I thought I recognized 
Charles Waneley, I stood stupified with surprise. My 
senses nearly failed me. On recovering myself, I looked 
again, but he had left the spot the moment he found 
himself observed. I darted through the crowd, and ran 
every way which I thought he could have gone, but it 
was all to no purpose. Nobody knew him. Nobody had 
even seen such a person. The two following days I re- 
newed my inquiries, and at last discovered the lodgings 
where a man of his description had resided. But he had 
left Naples the morning after his form had struck my eyes. 
I found he gained a subsistence by drawing rude figures 
in chalks, and vending them among the peasantry. I 
could no longer doubt it was my friend, and immediately 
perceived that his haughty spirit could not bear to be re- 
cognized, in such degrading circumstances, by one who 
had known him in better days. Lamenting the mis- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. -80 

guided notions wliicli liad tlms again thrown him from 
me, I left IS'aples, now grown hateful to my sight, and 
embarked for England. It is now nearly twenty-two 
years since this rencounter, during which period he has 
not been heard of: and there can be but little doubt that 
this unfortunate young man has found in some remote 
corner of the continent an obscure and an unlamented 
grave. 

Thus, those talents which were formed to do honor to 
human nature, and to the country which gave them birth, 
have been nipped in the bud by the frosts of poverty and 
scorn, and their unhappy possessor lies in an unknown 
and nameless tomb, who might, under happier circum- 
stances, have risen to the highest pinnacle of ambition 
and renown. W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— ISTo. HI. 

"Few know that elegance of soul refined 
Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy 
From melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride 
Of tasteless splendor and magnificence 
Can e'er afford." 

Warton's Melancholy. 

In one of my midnight rambles down the side of the 
Trent, the river which waters the place of my nativity, 
as I was musing on the various evils which darken the 
life of man, and which have their rise in the malevolence 
and ill-nature of his fellows, the sound of a flute from 
an adjoining copse attracted my attention. The tune it 
played was mournful yet soothing. It was suited to the 
solemnity of the hour. As the distant notes came wafted 
at intervals on my ear, now with gradual swell, then 

19 



290 PEOSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

dying away on tlie silence of the niglit, I felt tlie tide of 
indignation subside within me, and gave place to the 
solemn calm of repose. I listened for some time in 
breathless ravishment. The strain ceased, yet the sounds 
still vibrated on my heart, and the visions of bliss which 
they excited still glowed on my imagination. I was then 
standing in one of my favorite retreats. It was a little 
alcove, overshaded with willows, and a mossy seat at the 
back invited to rest. I laid myself listlessly on the bank. 
The Trent murmured softly at my feet, and the willows 
sighed as they waved over my head. It was the holy 
moment of repose, and I soon sunk into a deep sleep. 
The operations of fancy in a slumber, induced by a 
combination of circumstances so powerful and uncom- 
mon, could not fail to be wild and romantic in the 
extreme. Methought I found myself in an extensive 
area, filled with an immense ■ concourse of people. At 
one end was a throne of adamant, on which sat a female, 
in whose aspect I immediately recognised a divinity. 
She was clad in a garb of azure ; on her forehead she 
bore a sun, whose splendor the eyes of many were unable 
to bear, and whose rays illumined the whole space, and 
penetrated into the deepest recesses of darkness. The 
aspect of the goddess at a distance was forbidding, but 
on a nearer approach it was mild and engaging. Her 
eyes were blue and piercing, and there was a fascination 
in her smile which charmed as if by enchantment. The 
air of intelligence which beamed in her look made the 
beholder shrink into himself with the consciousness of 
inferiority ; yet the aflability of her deportment, and the 
simplicity and gentleness of her manners soon reassured 
him, while the bewitching softness which she could at 
times assume, won his permanent esteem. On inquiry 
of a bystander who it was that sat on the throne, and 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. -^1 

what was the occasion of so uncommon an assembly, he 
informed me that it was the Goddess of AVisdom, who 
had at last succeeded in regaining the dominion of the 
earth, which Folly had so long usurped. That she sat 
there in her judicial capacity, in order to try the merits 
of many who were supposed to be the secret emissaries of 
Folly. In this way I understood Envy and Malevolence 
had been sentenced to perpetual banishment, though 
several of their adherents yet remained among men, 
whose minds were too gross to be irradiated with the 
light of wisdom. One trial I understood was just ended 
and another supposed delinquent was about to be put 
to the bar. With much curiosity I hurried forwards 
to survey the figure which now approached. She was 
habited in black, and veiled to the waist. Her pace was 
solemn and majestic, yet in every movement was a win- 
ning gracefulness. As she approached to the bar I got 
a nearer view of her, when what was my astonishment 
to recognize in her the person of my favorite goddess, 
Melancholy. Amazed that she whom I had always looked 
upon as the sister and companion of Wisdom should be 
brought to trial as an emissary and an adherent of Folly, 
I waited in mute impatience for the accusation which 
could be framed against her. On looking towards the 
centre of the area, I was much surprised to see a bustling 
little Cit of my acquaintance, who, by his hemming and 
clearing, I concluded was going to make the charge. 
As he was a self-important little fellow, full of conse- 
quence and business, and totally incapable of all the finer 
emotions of the soul, I could not conceive what ground 
of complaint he could have against Melancholy, who, I 
was persuaded, would never have designed to take up 
her residence for a moment in his breast. Wlien I re- 
collected, however, that he had some sparks of ambition 



292 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

ill liis composition, and that he was an envious, carping 
little mortal, who had formed the design of shouldering 
himself into notice by decrying the defects of others, 
while he was insensible to his own, my amazement and 
my apprehensions vanished as I perceived he only wanted 
to make a display of his own talents, in doing which I 
did not fear his making himself sufficiently ridiculous. 

After a good deal of irrelevant circumlocution, he 
boldly began the accusation of Melancholy. I shall not 
dwell upon many absurd and many invidious parts of his 
speech, nor upon the many blunders in the misapplica- 
tion of words, such as " deduce" for '' detract,'" and others 
of a similar nature, which my poor friend committed in 
the course of his harangue, but shall only dwell upon 
the material parts of the charge. 

He represented the prisoner as the offspring of Idleness 
and Discontent, who was at all times a sulky, sullen and 
'^eminently useless" member of the community, and not 
unfrequently a very dangerous one. He declared it to 
be his opinion, that in case she were to be suffered to 
prevail, mankind would soon become 'Hoo idle to go" 
and would all lie down and perish through indolence, or 
through forgetting that sustenance was necessary for the 
preservation of existence : and concluded with painting 
the horrors which would attend such a depopulation of 
the earth, in such colors as made many weak minds re- 
gard the goddess with fear and abhorrence. 

Having concluded, the accused was called upon for her 
defence. She immediately, with a graceful gesture, lifted 
up. the veil which concealed her face, and discovered a 
countenance so soft, so lovely, and so sweetly expressive, 
as to strike the beholders with involuntary admiration, and 
which, at one glance, overturned all the flimsy sophistry 
of my poor friend the citizen ; and when the silver tones 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 293 

of lier voice were heard, the murmurs which uutil then 
had continually arisen from the crowd, were hushed to a 
dead still, and the whole multitude stood transfixed in 
breathless attention. As near as I can recollect, these 
were the words in which she addressed herself to the 
throne of wisdom. 

'^ I shall not deign to give a direct anstver to the various 
insinuations which have been thrown out against me by my 
accuser. Let it sufifice that I declare my true history, in 
opposition to that which has been so artfully fabricated 
to my disadvantage. In that early age of the world 
when mankind followed the peaceful avocations of a 
pastoral life only, and contentment and harmony reigned 
m every vale, I was not known among men ; but when, 
in process of time. Ambition and Vice, w^ith their at- 
tendant evils, were sent down as a scourge to the human 
race, I made my appearance. I am the offspring of 
Misfortune and Virtue, and was sent by Heaven to teach 
my parents how to support their afflictions with magna- 
nimity. As I grew up, I became the intimate friend of 
the wisest among men. I was the bosom friend of Plato 
and other illustrious sages of antiquity, and was then 
often known by the name of Philosophy, though, in 
present times, when that title is usurped by mere makers 
of experiments and inventors of blacking cakes, I am 
only known by the appellation of Melancholy. So far 
from being of a discontented disposition, my very essence 
is pious and resigned contentment. I teach my votaries 
to support every vicissitude of fortune with calmness 
and fortitude. It is mine to subdue the stormy propen- 
sities of passion and vice, to foster and encourage the 
principles of benevolence and philanthropy, and to 
cherish and bring to perfection the seeds of virtue and 
wisdom. Though feared and hated by those who, like 



294 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

my accuser, are ignorant of my nature, I am courted 
and cherished by all the truly wise, the good, and the 
great ; the poet woos me as the goddess of inspiration ; 
the true philosopher acknowledges himself indebted to 
me for his most expansive views of human nature ; the 
good man owes to me that hatred of the wrong and love 
of the right, and that disdain for the consequences which 
may result from the performance of his duties, which 
keeps him good ; and the religious flies to me for the 
only clear and unencumbered view of the attributes and 
perfections of the Deity. So far from being idle, my 
mind is ever on the wing in the regions of fancy, or 
that true philosophy which opens the book of human 
nature, and raises the soul above the evils incident to 
life. If I am useless, in the same degree were Plato and 
Socrates, Locke and Paley useless ; it is true that my 
immediate influence is confined, but its eflfects are dis- 
seminated by means of literature over every age and 
nation, and mankind, in every generation and in every 
clime, may look to me as their remote illuminator, the 
original spring of the principal intellectual benefits they 
possess. But as there is no good without its attendant 
evil, so I have an elder sister, called Frenzy, for whom 
I have often been mistaken, who sometimes follows 
close on my steps, and to her I owe much of the obloquy 
which is attached to my name, though the puerile accu- 
sation which has just been brought against me, turns on 
points which apply more exclusively to myself." 

She ceased, and a dead pause ensued. The multitude 
seemed struck with the fascination of her utterance and 
gesture, and the sounds of her voice still seemed to vibrate 
on every ear. The attention of the assembly, however, 
was soon recalled to the accuser, and their indignation 
at his baseness rose to such a height as to threaten 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 295 

general tumult, when the Goddess of Wisdom arose, and 
waving her hand for silence, heckoned the ^Drisoner to 
her, placed her on her right hand, and with a sweet 
smile acknowledged her for her old companion and 
friend. She then turned to the accuser, with a frown 
of severity so terrihle, that I involuntarily started with 
terror from my poor misguided friend, and with the 
violence of the start I awoke, and instead of the throne 
of the Goddess of Wisdom, and the vast assembly of 
people, beheld the first rays of the morning peeping 
over the eastern cloud, and instead of the loud murmurs 
of the incensed multitude, heard nothing but the soft 
gurgling of the river at my feet, and the rustling wing 
of the skylark, who was now beginning his first matin 
song. W. 



MELANCHOLY HOUKS.— l!^o. IV. 

2JxoTZ7j(7afJLevoq eopiffxov oodaixioq av aX)Mq ouroq diaTcpa^atisvnq. 

IsocR. 

The world has often heard of fortune-hunters, legacy- 
hunters, popularity-hunters, and hunters of various de- 
scriptions — one diversity, however, of this very extensive 
species has hitherto eluded public animadversion ; I 
allude to the class of friend-hunters ; men who make it 
the business of their lives to acquire friends, in the hope, 
through their influence, to arrive at some desirable point 
of ambitious eminence. Of all the mortifications and 
anxieties to which mankind voluntarily subject them- 
selves, from the expectation of future benefit, there are, 
perhaps, none more galling, none more insupportable, 
than those attendant on friend-making. Show a man 



-93 PROSE COMPOSITIOIv^S OF 

tliat you court liis society, and it is a signal for him to 
treat you witli neglect and contumely. Humor his pas- 
sions, and he despises you as a sycophant. Pay implicit 
deference to his opinions, and he laughs at you for your 
folly. In all he views you with contempt, as the creature 
of his will, as the slave of his caprice. I remember I 
once solicited the acquaintance and coveted the friend- 
ship of one man, and, thank God, I can yet say (and I 
hope on my death-bed I shall be able to say the same), 
of ONLY one man. 

Germanicus w^as a character of considerable eminence 
in the literary world. He had the reputation not only 
of an enlightened understanding and refined taste, but 
of openness of heart and goodness of disposition. His 
name always carried with it that w.eight and authority 
Avhich are due to learning and genius in every situation. 
His manners were polished and his conversation elegant. 
In short, he possessed every qualification which could 
render him an enviable addition to the circle of every 
man's friends. With such a character, as I was then 
very young, I could not fail to feel an ambition of be- 
coming acquainted, when the opportunity oftered, and 
in a short time we were upon terms of familiarity. To 
ripen this familiarity into friendship, as far as the most 
awkward difiidence would permit, was my strenuous 
endeavor. If his opinions contradicted mine, I imme- 
diately, without reasoning on the subject, conceded the 
point to him, as a matter of course that he must be 
right, and by consequence that I must be wrong. Did 
he utter a witticism, I was sure to laugh; and if he 
looked grave, though nobody could tell why, it was mine 
to groan. By thus conforming myself to his humor, I 
flattered myself I was making some progress in his 
good graces, but I was soon undeceived. A man seldom 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 297 

cares much for that which cost him no pains to procure. 
Wliether Germanicus found me a troublesome visitor, 
or whether he was really displeased with something I 
had unwittingly said or done, certain it is, that when I 
met him one day, in company with persons of apparent 
figure, he had lost all recollection of my features. I 
called upon him, but Germanicus was not at home. 
Again and again I gave a hesitating knock at the great 
man's door — all was to no purpose. He was still not at 
home. The sly meaning, however, which was couched 
in the sneer of the servant the last time, that, half 
ashamed of my errand, I made my inquiries at his house, 
convinced me of what I ought to have known before — 
that Germanicus was at home to all the world save me. 
I believe, with all my seeming humility, I am a con- 
founded proud fellow at bottom ; my rage at this disco- 
very, therefore, may be better conceived than described. 
Ten thousand curses did I imprecate on the foolish 
vanity which led me to solicit the friendship of my 
superior, and again and again did I vow down eternal 
vengeance on my head, if I ever more condescended 
thus to court the acquaintance of man. To this resolu- 
tion I believe I shall ever adhere. If I am destined to 
make any progress in the world, it will be by my own 
individual exertions. As I elbow my way through the 
crowded vale of life, I will never, in any emergency, call 
on my selfish neighbor for assistance. If my strength 
give way beneath the pressure of calamity, I shall sink 
without Ms whine of hypocritical condolence, and if I do 
sink, let him kick me into a ditch and go about his 
business. I asked not his assistance while livino- — it 
will be of no service to me when dead. 

Believe me, reader, whoever thou mayst be, there are 
few among mortals whose friendship, when acquired, will 



298 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

repay thee for the meanness of solicitation. If a man 
voluntarily holds out his hand to thee, take it with cau- 
tion. If thou find him honest, be not backward to re- 
ceive his proffered assistance, and be anxious, when oc- 
casion shall require, to yield to him thine own. A real 
friend is the most valuable blessing a man can possess, 
and, mark me, it is by far the most rare. It is a black 
swan. But, whatever thou mayst do solicit not friend- 
ship. If thou art young, and would make thy way in 
the world, bind thyself a seven years' apprenticeship 
to a city tallow-chandler, and thou mayst in time come 
to be lord mayor. Many people have made their fortunes 
at the tailor's board. Periwig-makers have been known 
to buy their country seats, and bellows-menders have 
started their curricles ; but seldom very seldom, very sel- 
dom, has the man who placed his dependence on the 
friendship of his fellow men arrived at even the shadow 
of the honor to which, through that medium, he aspired. 
E'ay, if thou shouldst find a friend ready to lend thee a 
helping hand, the moment, by his assistance, thou hast 
gained some little eminence, he will be the first to hurl 
thee down to thy primitive, and now, perhaps, irremedi- 
able obscurity. 

Yet I see no more reason for complaint on the ground 
of the fallacy of human friendship, than I do for any 
other ordinance of nature, which may appear to run coun- 
ter to our happiness. Man is naturally a selfish creature, 
and it is only by the aid of philosophy that he can so far 
conquer the defects of his being as to be capable of dis- 
interested friendship. Who, then, can expect to find that 
benign disposition which manifests itself in acts of disin- 
terested benevolence and spontaneous affection, a com- 
mon visitor ? Who can preach philosophy to the mob ?* 

* By the word mob here, the author does not mean to include merely 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 299 

Tlie recluse, who does not easily assimilate witli the 
herd of mankind, and whose manners with difficulty 
bend to the peculiarities of others, is not likely to have 
many real friends. His enjoyments, therefore, must be 
solitary, lone, and melancholy. His only friend is him- 
self. As he sits immersed in reverie by his midnight fire, 
and hears without the wild gusts of wind fitfully careering 
over the plains, he listens sadly attentive ; and as the va- 
ried intonations of the howling blast articulate to his 
enthusiastic ear, he converses with the spirits of the de- 
parted, while, between each dreary pause of the storm, 
he holds solitary communion with himself. Such is the 
social intercourse of the recluse ; yet he frequently feels 
the soft consolations of friendship. A heart formed for 
the gentler emotions of the soul, often feels as strong an 
interest for what are called brutes, as most bipeds afi:ect 
to feel for each other. Montaigne had his cat ; I have 
read of a man whose only friend was a large spider ; 
and Trenck, in his dungeon, would sooner have lost his 
right hand than the poor little mouse, which, grown con- 
fident with indulgence, used to beguile the tedious hours 
of imprisonment with its gambols. For my own part, 
I believe my dog, who, at this moment, seated on his 
hinder legs is wistfully surveying me, as if he was con- 
scious of all that is passing in my mind : — my dog, I say 
is as sincere, and, whatever the world may say, nearly as 
dear a friend as any I possess ; and, when I shall receive 
that summons which may not now be far distant, he will 
whine a funeral requiem over my grave, more piteously 
than all the hired mourners of Christendom. Well, well, 

the lower classes. In the present acceptation, it takes in a great part of the 
mob of quality : men who are either too ignorant or too much taken up with 
base and grovelling pursuits, to have room for any of the more amiable affec- 
tions. 



300 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

poor Bob lias had a kind master in me, and, for my own 
part, I verily believe there are few things on this earth I 
shall leave with more regret than this faithful companion 
of the happy hours of my infancy. W. 



MELAI^CHOLY HOURS.— ^o. V. 

^'Un sonnet sans defaut vaut seul un long poerne; 
Mais en vain mille auteurs y pensent arriver ; 
A peine * * ''^ * 

■^ * peut-on admirer deux ou trois entre mille."'' 

BOILEAIT. 

There is no species of poetry which is better adapted 
to the taste of a melancholy man than the sonnet. While 
its brevity precludes the possibility of its becoming tire- 
some, and its full and expected close accords well with 
his dejected and perhaps somewhat languid tone o± 
mind, its elegiac delicacy and querimonious plaintive- 
ness come in pleasing consonance with his feelings. 

This elegant little poem has met with a peculiar fate 
in this country : half a century ago it was regarded as 
utterly repugnant to the nature of our language, while at 
present it is the popular vehicle of the most admired sen- 
timents of our best living poets. This remarkable mu- 
tation in the opinions of our countrymen may, however, 
be accounted for on plain and common principles. The 
earlier English sonnetteers confined themselves in general 
too strictly to the Italian model, as well in the disposi- 
tion of the rhymes as in the cast of the ideas. A sonnet 
with them was only another word for some metaphysical 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



301 



conceit, or clumsy antithesis, contained in fourteen liarsh 
lines, full of obscure inversions and ill-managed exple- 
tives. They bound themselves down to a pattern which 
was in itself faulty, and they met with the common fate 
of servile imitators in retaining all the defects of their 
original, while they suffered the beauties to escape in 
the process. Their sonnets are like copies of a bad pic- 
ture : however accurately copied, they are still bad. Our 
contemporaries, on the contrary, have given scope to their 
genius in the sonnet without restraint, sometimes even 
growing licentious in their liberty, setting at defiance 
those rules which form its distinguishing peculiarity, and, 
under the name of sonnet, soaring or falling into ode or 
elegy. Their compositions, of course, are impressed with 
all those excellences which would have marked their 
respective productions in any similar walk of poetry. 

It has never been disputed that the sonnet first arrived 
at celebrity in the Italian ; a language which, as it abounds 
in a musical similarity of termination, is more eminently 
qualified to give ease and elegance to the legitimate son- 
net, restricted as it is to stated and frequently-recurring 
rhymes of the same class. As to the inventors of this 
little structure of verse, they are involved in impenetrable 
obscurity. Some authors have ascribed it singly to Gui- 
tone D'Arezzo, an Italian poet of the thirteenth century, 
but they have no sort of authority to adduce in support 
of their assertions. Arguing upon probabilities, with 
some slight coincidental corroborations, I should be in- 
clined to maintain that its origin may be referred to an 
earlier period ; that it may be looked for amongst the 
Provencals, who left scarcely any combination of metri- 
cal sounds unattempted; and who, delighting as they 
did in sound and jingle, might very possibly strike out 
this harmonious stanza of fourteen lines. Be this as it 



302 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

may, Dante and Petrarcli were tlie first poets wlio ren- 
dered it popular, and to Dante and Petrarcli therefore we 
must resort for its required rules. 

In an ingenious paper of Dr. Drake's " Literary Hours," 
a book which I have read again and again with undimi- 
nished pleasure, the merits of the various English writers 
in this delicate mode of composition are appreciated with 
much justice and discrimination. His veneration for 
Milton, however, has, if I may venture to oppose my 
judgment to his, carried him too far in praise of his 
sonnets. Those to the Nightingale and to Mr. Lawrence 
are, I think, alone entitled to the praise of mediocrity^ and, 
if my memory fail me not, my opinion is sanctioned by the 
testimony of our late illustrious biographer of the poet. 

The sonnets of Drummond are characterized as ex- 
quisite. It is somewhat strange, if this description be 
just, that they should so long have sunk into utter obli- 
vion to be revived only by a species of black-letter mania, 
which prevailed during the latter half of the eighteenth 
century, and of which some vestiges yet remain ; the 
more especially as Dr. Johnson, to whom they could 
scarcely be unknown, tells us, that " The fabric of the 
sonnet has never succeeded in our language." For my 
own part, I can say nothing of them. I have long sought 
a copy of Drummond's works, and I have sought it in 
vain ; but from specimens which I have casually met 
with, in quotations, I am forcibly inclined to favor the 
idea, that, as they possess natural and pathetic sentiments, 
clothed in tolerably harmonious language, they are 
entitled to the praise which has been so liberally bestowed 
on them. 

Sir Philip Sidney's " Astrophel and Stella" consists of 
a number of sonnets, which have been unaccountably 
passed over by Dr. Drake and all our other critics who 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



303 



have written on this subject. Many of them are emi- 
nently beautiful. The works of this neglected poet may 
occupy a future number of my lucubrations. 

Excepting these two poets, I believe there is scarcely 
a writer who has arrived at any degree of excellence in 
the sonnet, until of late years, when our vernacular bards 
have raised it to a degree of eminence and dignity, 
among the various kinds of poetical composition, which 
seems almost incompatible with its very circumscribed 
limits. 

Passing over the classical compositions of Warton, 
which are formed more on the model of the Greek epi- 
gram, or epitaph, than the Italian sonnet, Mr. Bowles 
and Charlotte Smith are the first modern writers who 
have met with distinguished success in the sonnet. 
Those of the former, in particular, are standards of ex- 
cellence in this department. To much natural and ac- 
curate description, they unite a strain of the most ex- 
quisitely tender and delicate sentiment ; and with a 
nervous strength of diction and a wild freedom of versi- 
fication, they combine a euphonious melody and con- 
sonant cadence unequalled in the English language. 
While they possess, however, the superior merit of an 
original style, they are not unfrequently deformed by 
instances of that ambitious singularity which is but too 
frequently its concomitant. Of these the introduction 
of rhymes long since obsolete is not the least striking. 
Though, in some cases these revivals of antiquated phrase 
have a pleasing efiect, yet they are oftentimes uncouth 
and repulsive. Mr. Bowles has almost always thrown 
aside the common rules of the sonnet ; his pieces have 
no more claim to that specific denomination than that 
they are confined to fourteen lines. How far this devi- 
ation from established principle is justifiable may be dis- 



304 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

puted ; for if, on tlie one liancl, it be alleged that the con- 
finement to the stated repetition of rhymes, so distant 
and frequent, is a restraint which is not compensated by 
an adequate effect ; on the other, it must be conceded, 
that these little poems are no longer sonnets than while 
they conform to the rules of the sonnet, and that the 
moment they forsake them they ought to resign the ap- 
pellation. 

The name bears evident affinity to the Italian sondire, 
''to resound'' — ''sing around,'' which originated in the 
Latin sonans, — sounding, jingling, ringing : or, indeed, it 
may come immediately from the French sonner, to sound, 
or ring, in which language, it is observable, we first meet 
with the word sonnette, where it signifies a little hell, and 
sonnettier a maker of little bells; and this derivation 
affords a presumption, almost amounting to certainty, 
that the conjecture before advanced, that the sonnet 
originated with the Provencals, is well founded. It is 
somewhat strange that these contending derivations have 
not been before observed, as they tend to settle a question 
which, however intrinsically unimportant, is curious, 
and has been much agitated. 

But, wherever the name originated, it evidently bears 
relation only to the peculiarity of a set of chiming and 
jingling terminations, and of course can no longer be 
applied with propriety where that peculiarity is not pre- 
served. 

The single stanza of fourteen lines, properly varied in 
their correspondent closes, is, notwithstanding, so well 
adapted for the expression of any pathetic sentiment, and 
is so pleasing and satisfactory to the ear, when once 
accustomed to it, that our poetry would suffer a mate- 
rial loss were it to be disused through a rigid adherence 
to mere propriety of name. At the same time, our 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 305 

language does not supply a sufficiency of similar termi- 
nations to render the strict observance of its rules at all 
easy or compatible with ease or elegance. The only 
question, therefore, is, whether the musical effect pro- 
duced by the adherence to this difficult structure of verse 
overbalances the restraint it imposes on the poet, and in 
case we decide in the negative, whether we ought to 
preserve the denomination of sonnet, when we utterly 
renounce the very peculiarities which procured it that 
cognomen. 

^ In the present enlightened age, I think it will not be 
disputed that mere jingle and sound ought invariably to 
be sacrificed to sentiment and expression. Musical efiect 
is a very subordinate consideration ; it is the gilding to 
the cornices of a Yitruvian edifice ; the coloring to a 
shaded design of Michael Angelo. In its place it adds 
to the effect of the whole, but when rendered a principal 
object of attention it is ridiculous and disgusting. Ehjmie 
is no necessary adjunct of true poetry. Southey's 
" Thalaba" is a fine poem, with no rhyme and very little 
measure or metre ; and the production which is reduced 
to mere prose by being deprived of its jingle, could never 
possess, in any state, the marks of inspiration. 

So far, therefore, I am of opinion that it is advisable 
to renounce the Italian fabric altogether. We have 
already sufficient restrictions laid upon us by the metrical 
laws of our native tongue, and I do not see any reason, 
out of a blind regard for precedent, to tie ourselves to a 
difficult structure of verse, which probably originated 
with the Troubadours, or wandering bards of France 
and ^N'ormandy, or with a yet ruder race ; one which is 
not productive of any rational effect, and which only 
pleases the ear by frequent repetition, as men who have 
once had the greatest aversion to strong wines and 

20 



306 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

spirituous liquors, are, by habit, at last brougbt to regard 
them as delicacies. 

In advancing this opinion, I am aware that I am 
opposing myself to the declared sentiments of many 
individuals whom I greatly respect and admire. Miss 
Seward (and Miss Seward is in herself a host) has, both 
theoretically and practically, defended the Italian struc- 
ture. Mr. Capel LofFt has likewise favored the world 
with many sonnets, in which he shows his approval of 
the legitimate model by his adherence to its rules, and 
many of the beautiful poems of Mrs. Loffit, published in 
the "Monthly Mirror," are likewise successfully formed 
by those rules. Much, however, as I admire these writers, 
and ample as is the credence I give to their critical dis- 
crimination, I cannot, on mature reflection, subscribe to 
their position of the expediency of adopting this structure 
in our poetry, and I attribute their success in it more to 
their individual powers, which would have surmounted 
much greater difficulties, than to the adaptability of this 
foreign fabric to our stubborn and intractable language. 

If the question, however, turn only on the propriety of 
giving to a poem a name which must be acknowledged to 
be entirely inappropriate, and to which it can have no 
sort of claim, I must confess that it is manifestly inde- 
fensible ; and we must then either pitch upon another 
appellation for our quatorzain, or banish it from our 
language ; a measure which every lover of true poetry 
must sincerely lament. 



MELAIS'CHOLY HOUES.— I^o. VI. 

^' Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.'' 

Gray. 

Poetry is a blossom of very delicate growth ; it requires 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 307 

the maturing influence of vernal suns, and every en- 
couragement of culture and attention, to bring it to its 
natural perfection. The pursuits of the mathematician 
or the mechanical genius, are such as require rather 
strength and insensibility of mind than that exquisite and 
finely wrought susceptibility, which invariably marks the 
temperament of the true poet ; and it is for this reason, 
that while men of science have, not unfrequently, arisen 
from the abodes of poverty and labor, very few legitimate 
children of the Muse have ever emerged from the shades 
of hereditary obscurity. 

It is painful to reflect how many a bard now lies, 
nameless and forgotten, in the narrow house, who, had 
he been born to competence and leisure, might have 
usurped the laurels from the most distinguished person- 
ages in the temple of Fame. The very consciousness of 
merit itself often acts in direct opposition to a stimulus 
to exertion, by exciting that mournful indignation at 
supposititious neglect which urges a sullen concealment 
of talents, and drives its possessors to that misanthropic 
discontent which preys on the vitals, and soon produces 
untimely mortality. A sentiment like this has, no doubt, 
often actuated beings who attracted notice, perhaps, while 
they lived, only by their singularity, and who were for- 
gotten almost ere their parent earth had closed over their 
heads — beings who lived but to mourn and to languish 
for what they were never destined to enjoy, and whose 
exalted endowments were buried with them in their 
graves, by the want of a little of that superfluity which 
serves to pamper the debased appetites of the enervated 
sons of luxury and sloth. 

The present age, however, has furnished us with two 
illustrious instances of poverty, bursting through the 
cloud of surrounding impediments, into the full blaze of 



308 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

notoriety and eminence. I allude to tlie two Bloomfields 
— bards who may challenge a comparison with the most 
distinguished favorites of the Muse, and who both passed 
the day-spring of life in labor, indigence, and obscurity. 

The author of the "Farmer's Boy" hath already re- 
ceived the applause he justly deserved. It yet remains 
for the "Essay on War" to enjoy all the distinction it so 
richly merits, as well from its sterling worth, as from the 
circumstances of its author. Whether the present age 
will be inclined to do it full justice, may indeed be feared. 
Had Mr. I^athaniel Bloomfield made his appearance in 
the horizon of letters prior to his brother, he would un- 
doubtedly have been considered as a meteor of uncom- 
mon attraction ; the critics would have admired, because 
it would have been the fashion to admire. But it is to 
be apprehended that our countrymen become inured to 
phenomena : — it is to be apprehended that the frivolity 
of the age cannot endure a repetition of the uncommon 
— that it will no longer be the rage to patronize indigent 
merit — that the heau monde will therefore neglect, and 
that, by a necessary consequence, the critics will sneer ! 

Nevertheless, sooner or later, merit will meet with its 
reward; and though the popularity of Mr. Bloomfield 
may be delayed, he must, at one time or other, receive 
the meed due to his deserts. Posterity will judge im- 
partially: and if bold and vivid images, and original 
conceptions, luminously displayed and judiciously ap- 
posed, have any claim to the regard of mankind, the 
name of I^athaniel Bloomfield will not be without its 
high and appropriate honors. 

Rousseau very truly observes, that with whatever talent 
a man may be born, the art of writing is not easily ob- 
tained. If this be applicable to men enjoying every 
advantage of scholastic initiation, how much more forci- 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 309 

bly must it apply to tlie offspring of a poor village tailor, 
untaught, and destitute both of the means and the time 
necessary for the cultivation of the mind ! If the art of 
writing be of difficult attainment to those who make it 
the study of their lives, what must it be to him, who, 
perhaps for the first forty years of his life, never enter- 
tained a thought that anything he could write would be 
deemed worthy of the attention of the public ! — whose 
only time for rumination was such as a sedentary and 
sickly employment would allow ; on the tailor's board, 
surrounded with men, perhaps, of depraved and rude 
habits, and impure conversation. 

And yet, that Mr. E". Bloomfield's poems display 
acuteness of remark and delicacy of sentiment, com- 
bined with much strength and considerable selection of 
diction, few will deny. The "Paean to Gunpowder" 
would alone prove his power of language, and the fer- 
tility of his imagination ; and the following extract pre- 
sents him to us in the still higher character of a bold and 
vivid ^^m^er. Describing the field after a battle, he says — 

" Now here and there, about the horrid field, 
Striding across the dying and the dead, 
Stalks up a man, by strength superior, 
Or skill and prowess in the arduous fight, 
Preserved alive : fainting he looks around ; 
Fearing pursuit — not caring to pursue. 
The supplicating voice of bitterest moans, 
Contortions of excruciating pain, 
The shriek of torture, and the groan of death. 
Surround him ; and as Night her mantle spreads. 
To veil the horrors of the mourning field, 
With cautious step shaping his devious way, 
He seeks a covert where to hide and rest : 
At every leaf that rustles in the breeze 
Starting, he grasps his sword | and every nerve 
Is ready strained, for combat or for flight." 

P. 12, Essay on War. 



310 PEOSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

If Mr. Bloomfield liad written nothing besides tlie 
" Elegy on tlie Enclosure of Honington Green," he would 
have had a right to be considered as a poet of no mean 
excellence. The heart which can read passages like the 
following without a sympathetic emotion must be dead 
to every feeling of sensibility. 

STANZA VI. 

"The proud city's gay wealthy train, 

Who nought but refinement adore, 
May wonder to hear me complain 

That Honington Green is no more ; 
But if to the church you ere went, 

If you knew what the village has been, 
You will sympathize while I lament 

The enclosure of Honington Green, 

VII. 

'' That no more upon Honington Green 

Dwells the matron whom most I revere, 
If by pert observation unseen, 

I e'en now could indulge a fond tear. 
Ere her bright morn of life was o'ercast, 

When my senses first woke to the scene, 
Some short happy hours she had past 

On the margin of Honington Green. 

VIII. 

'' Her parents with plenty were blest, 

And numerous her children, and young. 
Youth's blossoms her cheek yet possest, 

And melody woke when she sung : 
A widow so youthful to leave 

(Early closed the blest days he had seen). 
My father was laid in his grave, 

In the churchyard on Honington Green. 

■Sfr * -x- -K- 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 311 



XXI. 



"Dear to me was the wild thorny hill, 

And dear the brown heath's solser scene ; 

And youth shall find happiness still, 

Though he rove not on common or green. 



* * 



XXII. 

" So happily flexile man's make, 

So pliantly docile his mind. 
Surrounding impressions we take, 

And bliss in each circumstance find. 
The youths of a more polished age 

Shall not wish these rude commons to see 
To the bird that's inured to the cao-e, 

It would not be bliss to be free." 



There is a sweet and tender melanclioly pervades the 
elegiac ballad efforts of Mr. Bloomfield, which has the 
most indescribable effects on the heart. Were the versi- 
fication a Httle more polished, in some instances, they 
would be read with unmixt delight. It is to be hoped 
that he will cultivate this engaging species of composition, 
and (if I may venture to throw out the hint) if judgment 
may be formed from the poems he has published, he 
would excel in sacred poetry. Most heartily do I re- 
commend the lyre of David to this engaging bard. 
Divine topics have seldom been touched upon with suc- 
cess by our modern Muses; they afford a field in which 
he would have few competitors, and it is a field worthy 
of his abilities. 

W. 



312 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



MELAE^CHOLY HOUES.— ITo. Vn.* 

If the situation of man, in the present life, be con- 
sidered in all its relations and dependencies, a striking 
inconsistency will be apparent to every cursory observer. 
We have sure warrant for believing that our abode here 
is to form a comparatively insignificant part of our 
existence, and that on our conduct in this life will de- 
pend the happiness of the life to come ; yet our actions 
daily give the lie to this proposition, inasmuch as we 
commonly act like men who have no thought but for 
the present scene, and to whom the grave is the boundary 
of anticipation. But this is not the only paradox which 
humanity furnishes to the eye of a thinking man. It is 
very generally the case, that we spend our whole lives 
in the pursuit of objects, which common experience 
informs us are not capable of conferring that pleasure 
and satisfaction which we expect from their enjoyment. 
Our views are uniformly directed to one point — happi- 
ness, in whatever garb it be clad, and under whatever 
figure shadowed, is the great aim of the busy multitudes 
whom we behold toiling through the vale of life in such 
an infinite diversity of occupation and disparity of views. 
But the misfortune is, that we seek for happiness where 
she is not to be found, and the cause of wonder, that the 
experience of ages should not have guarded us against 
so fatal and so universal an error. 

It would be an amusing speculation to consider the 

* My predecessor, the " Spectator," considering that the seventh part of 
our time is set apart for religious purposes, devoted every seventh lucubra- 
tion to matters connected with Christianity and the severer part of morals: 
I trust none of my readers will regret that, in this instance, I follow so good 
an example. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 313 

various points after which our fellow-mortals are inces- 
santly straining, and in the possession of which they 
have placed that imaginary chief good, which we are all 
doomed to covet, but which, perhaps, none of us, in this 
sublunary state, can attain. At present, however, we 
are led to considerations of a more important nature. 
We turn from the inconsistencies observable in the pro- 
secution of our subordinate pursuits, from the partial 
follies of individuals, to the general delusion which 
seems to envelop the whole human race— the delusion 
under whose influence they lose sight of the chief end 
of their being — and cut down the sphere of their hopes 
and enjoyments to a few rolling years, and that too in a 
scene where they know there is neither perfect fruition 
nor permanent delight. 

The faculty of contemplating mankind in the abstract, 
apart from those prepossessions which, both by nature 
and the power of habitual associations, would intervene 
to cloud our view, is only to be obtained by a life of 
virtue and constant meditation, by temperance, and 
purity of thought. Wlienever it is attained, it must 
greatly tend to correct our motives, to simplify our de- 
sires, and to excite a spirit of contentment and pious 
resignation. We then, at length, are enabled to con- 
template our being in all its bearings and in its full ex- 
tent, and the result is, that superiority to common views 
and indifference to the things of this life which should 
be the fruit of all true philosophy, and which, therefore, 
are the more peculiar fruits of that system of philosophy 
which is called the Christian. 

To a mind thus sublimed, the great mass of mankind 
will appear like men led astray by the workings of wild 
and distempered imaginations — visionaries who are wan- 
dering after the phantoms of their own teeming brains, 



S14 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

and their anxious solicitude for mere matters of worldly 
accommodation and ease will seem more like tlie eifects of 
insanity than of prudent foresight, as they are esteemed. 
To the awful importance of futurity he will observe them 
utterly insensible, and he will see, with astonishment, 
the few allotted years of human life wasted in providing 
abundance they will never enjoy, while the eternity they 
are placed here to prepare for scarcely employs a mo- 
ment's consideration. And yet the mass of these poor 
wanderers in the ways of error have the light of truth 
shining on their veiy foreheads. They have the revela- 
tion of Almighty God himself, to declare to them the 
folly of worldly cares, and the necessity for providing for 
a future state of existence. They know by the expe- 
rience of every preceding generation, that a very small 
portion of joy is allowed to the poor sojourners in this 
vale of tears, and that, too, embittered with much pain 
and fear ; and yet every one is willing to flatter himself 
that he shall fare better than his predecessor in the same 
path, and that happiness will smile on him which hath 
frowned on all his progenitors. 

Still, it would be wrong to deny the human race all 
claim to temporal felicity. There may be comparative, 
although very little positive happiness; — whoever is 
more exempt from the cares of the world and the cala- 
mities incident to humanity — whoever enjoys more 
contentment of mind, and is more resigned to the dis- 
pensations of Divine Providence — in a word, whoever 
possesses more of the true spirit of Christianity than his 
neighbors, is comparatively happy. But the number of 
these, it is to be feared, is very small. "Were all men 
equally enlightened by the illuminations of truth, as 
emanating from the spirit of Jehovah himself, they would 
all concur in the pursuit of virtuous ends by virtuous 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 315 

means — as there would be no vice, there would be very 
little infelicity. Every pain would be met with fortitude, 
every affliction with resignation. We should then all 
look back to the past with complacency, and to the fu- 
ture with hope. Even this unstable state of being would 
have many exquisite enjoyments— the principal of which 
would be the anticipation of that approaching state of 
beatitude to which we might then look with confidence, 
through the medium of that atonement of which we 
should be partakers, and our acceptance, by virtue of 
which, would be sealed by that purity of mind of which 
human nature is, of itself, incapable. But it is from the 
mistakes and miscalculations of mankind, to which their 
fallen natures are continually prone, that arises that 
flood of misery which overwhelms the whole race, and 
resounds wherever the footsteps of man have penetrated. 
It is the lamentable error of placing happiness in vicious 
indulgences, or thinking to pursue it by vicious means. 
It is the blind folly of sacrificing the welfare of the 
future to the opportunity of immediate guilty gratifica- 
tion which destroys the harmony of society, and poisons 
the peace not only of the immediate procreators of the 
errors, not only of the identical actors of the vices them- 
selves, but of all those of their fellows who fall within 
the reach of their influence or example, or who are in 
any wise connected with them by the ties of blood. 

I would therefore exhort you earnestly — ^you who are 
yet unskilled in the ways of the world— to beware on 
what object you concentre your hopes. Pleasures may 
allure, pride or ambition may stimulate, but their fruits 
are hollow and deceitful, and they afford no sure, no 
solid satisfaction. You are placed on the earth in a 
state of probation ; your continuance here will be, at the 
longest, a very short period, and when you are called 



316 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

from hence you plunge into an eternity, the completion 
of which, will be in correspondence to your past life, un- 
utterably happy or inconceivably miserable. Your fate 
will probably depend on your early pursuits — it will be 
these which will give the turn to your character and to 
your pleasures. I beseech you, therefore, with a meek 
and lowly spirit, to read the pages of that book, which 
the wisest and best of men have acknowledged to be 
the word of God. You will there find a rule of moral 
conduct, such as the world never had any idea of before 
its divulgation. If you covet earthly happiness, it is 
only to be found in the path you will find there laid 
down, and I can confidently promise you, in a life of 
simplicity and purity, a life passed in accordance with 
the divine word, such substantial bliss, such unrufiled 
peace, as is nowhere else to be found. All other schemes 
of earthly pleasure are fleeting and unsatisfactory. They 
all entail upon them repentance and bitterness of thought. 
This alone endureth forever — this alone embraces equally 
the present and the future — this alone can arm a man 
against every calamity — can alone shed the balm of peace 
over that scene of life when pleasures have lost their 
zest, and the mind can no longer look forward to the 
dark and mysterious future. Above all, beware of the 
ignis fatuus of false philosophy: that must be a very 
defective system of ethics which will not bear a man 
through the most trying stage of his existence, and I 
know of none that will do it but the Christian. 

W. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 317 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— l^o. YHI. 

"'Oartq loyooq yap Tzapay.ara^^i'/.ry^ wq Xa6(i)'^ 
^ E^sl ~£>, adt'/.uq iartv^ rj a.y.paT'qq aya'j. 

Xauiiz, di y iicnv ap.(porepot y.axoi. 

Anaxandrides apud Suidam. 

Much has been said of late on the subject of inscriptive 
writing^ and that, in my opinion, to very little purpose. 
Dr. Drake, when treating on this topic is, for once, in- 
conclusive ; but his essay does credit to his discernment, 
however little it may honor him as a promulgator of the 
laws of criticism : the exquisite specimens it contains 
prove that the doctor has a feeling of propriety and 
general excellence, although he may be unhappy in 
defining them. Boileau says, briefly, '' Les inscriptions 
doivent etre simples, courtes, et familieres." We have, 
however, many examples of this kind of writing in our 
language, which, although they possess none of these 
qualities, are esteemed excellent. Akenside's classic 
imitations are not at all simple, nothing short, and the 
very reverse of familiar, yet who can deny that they are 
beautiful, and in some instances appropriate ? Southey's 
inscriptions are noble pieces ; — for the opposite qualities 
of tenderness and dignity, sweetness of imagery and 
terseness of moral, unrivalled ; they are perhaps wanting 
in propriety, and (which is the criterion) produce a much 
better effect in a book than they would on a column or 
a cenotaph. There is a certain chaste and majestic 
gravity expected from the voice of tombs and monuments, 
which probably would displease in ej^itaphs never in- 
tended to be engraved, and inscriptions for obelisks 
which never existed. 



318 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

"When a man visits the tomb of an illustrious character, 
a spot remarkable for some memorable deed, or a scene 
connected by its natural sublimity with the higher 
feelings of the breast, he is in a mood only for the nervous, 
the concise, and the impressive ; and he will turn with 
disgust alike from the puerile conceits of the epigram- 
matist and the tedious prolixity of the herald. It is a 
nice thing to address the mind in the workings of gene- 
rous enthusiasm. As words are not capable of exciting 
such an effervescence of the sublimer affections, so they 
can do little towards increasing it. Their office is rather 
to point these feelings to a beneficial purpose, and by 
some noble sentiment, or exalted moral, to impart to the 
mind that. pleasure which results from warm emotions 
when connected with the virtuous and the generous. 

In the composition of inscriptive pieces, great attention 
must be paid to local and topical propriety. The occasion 
and the place must not only regulate the tenor, but even 
the style of an inscription : for what, in one case, would 
be proper and agreeable, in another would be impertinent 
and disgusting. But these rules may always be taken 
for granted, that an inscription should be unaffected and 
free from conceits ; that no sentiment should be intro- 
duced of a trite or hackneyed nature ; and that the design 
and the moral to be inculcated should be of sufficient 
importance to merit the reader's attention, and insure 
his regard. Who would think of setting a stone up in the 
wilderness to tell the traveller what he knew before, or 
what, when he had learnt for the first time, was not 
worth the knowing ? It would be equally absurd to call 
aside his attention to a simile or an epigrammatic point. 
"Wit on a monument is like a jest from a judge, or a 
philosopher cutting caperSi It is a severe mortification 
to meet with flippancy where we looked for solemnity, 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 319 

and meretricious elegance wliere the occasion led us to 
expect the unadorned majesty of truth. 

That branch of inscriptive writing which comme- 
morates the virtues of departed worth, or points out the 
ashes of men who yet live in the admiration of their 
posterity is, of all others, the most interesting, and, if 
properly managed, the most useful. 

It is not enough to proclaim to the observer that he is 
drawing near to the relics of the deceased genius, — 
the occasion seems to provoke a few reflections. If these 
be natural, they will be in unison with the feelings of the 
reader, and, if they tend where they ought to tend, they 
will leave him better than they found him. But these 
reflections must not be too much prolonged. They must 
rather be hints than dissertations. It is sufficient to start 
the idea, and the imagination of the reader will pursue 
the train to much more advantage than the writer could 
do by words. 

Panegyric is seldom judicious in the epitaphs on public 
characters ; for if it be deserved it cannot need publication, 
and if it be exaggerated it will only serve to excite ridi- 
cule. "When employed in memorizing the retired virtues 
of domestic life, and qualities which, though they only 
served to cheer the little circle of privacy, still deserved, 
from their unfrequency, to triumph, at least for a while, 
over the power of the grave, it may be interesting and 
salutary in its effects. To this purpose, however, it is 
rarely employed. An epitaph-book will seldom supply 
the exigencies of character ; and men of talents are not 
always, even in these favored times, at hand to eternize 
the virtues of private life. 

The following epitaph, by Mr. Hayley, is inscribed on 
a monument to the memory of Cowper, in the church of 
East Dereham : — 



320 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

^' Ye, wlio with warmth the public triumph feel 
Of talents dignified by sacred zeal ; 
Here to devotion's bard devoutly just, 
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust 
England, exulting in his spotless fame, 
Ranks with her dearest sons his favorite name : 
Sense, Fancy, "Wit, conspire not all to raise 
So clear a title to affection's praise ; 
His highest honors to the heart belong ; 
His virtues formed the magic of his song." 

"This epitaph," says a periodical critic,'^ "is simply 
elegant and appropriately just." I regard this sentence 
as peculiarly unfortunate, for the epitaph seems to me to 
be elegant without simplicity and just without propriety, 
"No one will deny that it is correctly written, and that it 
is not destitute of grace ; but in what consists its simplicity 
I am at a loss to imagine. The initial .address is labored 
and circumlocutory. There is something artificial rather 
than otherwise in the personification of England, and her 
ranking the poet's name "• with her dearest sons," instead 
of with tJiose of her dearest sons, is like ranking poor 
John Doe with a proper bona fide son of Adam, in a writ 
of arrest. Sense, fancy, and wit, "raising a title," and 
that to "affection's praise," is not very simple, and not 
over intelligible. Again the epitaph is just because it 
is strictly true ; but it is by no means, therefore, appro- 
priate. Who that would turn aside to visit the ashes of 
Cowper, would need to be told that England ranks him 
with her favorite sons, and that sense, fancy, and wit 
were not his greatest honors, for that his virtues formed 
the magic of his song: or who, hearing this, would be 
the better for the information ? Had Mr. Hayley been 
employed in the monumental praises of a private man, 
this might have been excusable, but speaking of such a 

* The " Monthly Reviewer." 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 321 

man as Cowper it is idle. This epitaph is not appropriate, 
therefore, and we have shown that it is not remarkable 
for simplicity. Perhaps the respectable critics themselves 
may not feel inclined to dispute this point very tena- 
ciously. Epithets are very convenient little things for 
rounding; off' a period ; and it will not be the first time 
that truth has been sacrificed to verbosity and antithesis. 
To measure lances with Hayley may be esteemed 
presumptuous; but probably the following, although 
much inferior as a composition, would have had more 
effect than his polished and harmonious lines : — 

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER. 

Reader! if with no vulgar sympathy 

Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, 

Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallowed spot. 

Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made 

His name familiar to thine ear, this stone 

May tell thee that his virtues were above 

The common portion : — that the voice, now hushed 

In death, was once serenely querulous 

With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe 

Spake music. Now forgetful at thy feet 

His tired head presses on its last long rest, 

Still tenant of the tomb ; — and on the cheek 

Once warm with animation's lambent flush, 

Sits the pale image of unmarked decay. 

Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part ; 

And these sad garments of mortality 

Put off, we trust, that to a happier land 

He went a light and gladsome passenger. 

Sigh'st thou for honors, reader ? Call to mind 

That glory's voice is impotent to pierce 

The silence of the tomb ! but virtue blooms 

Even on the wrecks of life, and mounts the skies ! 

So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk 

With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. 

This inscription is faulty from its length, but if a 

painter cannot get the requisite effect at one stroke, he 

21 ' 



^^^ PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

must do it by many. The laconic style of epitaphs is the 
most difficult to be managed of any, inasmuch as most 
is expected from it. A sentence standing alone on a 
tomb or a monument, is expected to contain something 
particularly striking ; and when this expectation is dis- 
appointed, the reader feels like a man who, having been 
promised an excellent joke, is treated with a stale conceit 
or a vapid pun. The best specimen of this kind, which 
I am acquainted with, is that on a French general : 

" Siste, Viator ; Heroem calcas !" 
Stop; traveller ; thou treadest on a hero ! 



MELAIN^CHOLY HOUES.— Fo. IX. 

'^Scires e sanguine natos." — O.vid. 

It is common for busy and active men to behold the 
occupations of the retired and' contemplative person with 
contempt. They consider his speculations as idle and 
unproductive : as they participate in none of his feelings, 
they are strangers to his motives, his views, and his de- 
lights : they behold him elaborately employed on what 
they conceive forwards none of the interests of life, con- 
tributes to none of its gratifications, removes none of its 
inconveniences : they conclude, therefore, that he is led 
away by the delusions of futile philosophy, that he labors 
for no good, and lives to no end. Of the various frames 
of mind which they observe in him, no one seems to pre- 
dominate more, and none appears to them more absurd 
than sadness, which seems, in some degree, to pervade 
all his views, and shed a solemn tinge over all his thoughts. 
Sadness, arising from no personal grief, and connected 
with no individual concern, they regard as moonstruck 
melancholy, the effect of a mind overcast with constitu- 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 323 

tional gloom, and diseased witli habits of vain and fanciful 
speculation. ^' We can share with the sorrows of the un- 
fortunate," say they," but this monastic spleen merits only 
our derision ; it tends to no beneficial purpose ; it benefits 
neither its possessor nor society." Those who have 
thought a little more on this subject than the gay and 
busy crowd will draw conclusions of a difierent nature. 
That there is a sadness, springing from the noblest and 
purest sources, a sadness friendly to the human heart, and, 
by direct consequence, to human nature in general, is a 
truth which a little illustration will render tolerably clear, 
and which, when understood in its full force, may pro- 
bably convert contempt and ridicule into respect. 

I set out then with the proposition, that the man who 
thinks deeply, especially if his reading be extensive, will, 
unless his heart be very cold and very light, become ha- 
bituated to a pensive, or, with more propriety, a mourn- 
ful cast of thought. This will arise from two more parti- 
cular sources — from the view of human nature in general, 
as demonstrated by the experience both of past and pre- 
sent times, and from the contemplation of individual in- 
stances of human depravity and of human suffering. 
The first of these is, indeed, the last in the order of time, 
for his general views of humanity are in a manner conse- 
quential, or resulting from the special, but I have inverted 
that order for the sake of perspicuity. 

Of those who have occasionally thought on these 
subjects, I may, with perfect assurance of their reply, 
inquire what have been their sensations when they 
have, for a moment, attained a more enlarged and capa- 
cious notion of the state of man in all its bearings and 
dependencies? They have found, and the profoundest 
philosophers have done no more, that they are enveloped 
in mystery, and that the mystery of man's situation is 



324 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

not witliout alarmiDg and fearful circumstances. They 
have discovered tliat all they know of themselves is that 
they live, but from whence they came, or whither they 
are going, is by [N'ature altogether hidden ; that impene- 
trable gloom surrounds them on every side, and that they 
even hold their morrow on the credit of to-day, when it is, 
in fact, buried in the vague and indistinct gulf of the ages 
to come ! These are reflections deeply interesting, and 
lead to others so awful, that many gladly shut their eyes 
on the giddy and unfathomable depths which seem to 
stretch before them. The meditative man, however, 
endeavors to pursue them to the farthest stretch of the 
reasoning powers, and to enlarge his conceptions of the 
mysteries of his own existence, and the more he learns, 
and the deeper he penetrates, the more cause does he 
find for being serious, and the more inducements to be 
continually thoughtful. ., 

If, again, we turn from the condition of mortal existence, 
considered in the abstract, to the qualities and characters 
of man, and his condition in a state of society, we see 
things perhaps equally strange and infinitely more affect- 
ing. In the economy of creation, we perceive nothing 
inconsistent with the power of an all-wise and all-merci- 
ful God, A perfect harmony runs through all the parts of 
the universe. Plato's sirens sing not only from the pla- 
netary octave, but through all the minutest divisions of 
the stupendous whole : order, beauty, and perfection, 
the traces of the great architect, glow through every par- 
ticle of his work. At man, however, we stop : there is 
one exception. The harmony of order ceases, and vice 
and misery disturb the beautiful consistency of creation, 
and bring us first acquainted with positive evil. We be- 
hold men carried irresistibly away by corrupt principles 
iind vicious inclinations, indulging in propensities, de- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 325 

structive as well to themselves as to those around them ; 
the stronger oppressing the weaker, and the bad persecu- 
ting the good ! We see the depraved in prosperity, the 
virtuous in adversity, the guilty unpunished, the unde- 
serving overwhelmed with unprovoked misfortunes. 
From hence we are tempted to think, that He, whose arm 
holds the planets in their course, and directs the comets 
along their eccentric orbits, ceases to exercise his provi- 
dence over the affairs of mankind, and leaves them to be 
governed and directed by the impulses of a corrupt heart, 
or the blind workings of chance alone. Yet this is in- 
consistent both with the wisdom and goodness of the 
Deity. If God permit evil, he causes it : the difference 
is casuistical. We are led, therefore, to conclude, that it 
was not always thus : that man was created in a far diffe- 
rent and far happier condition ; but that, by some means or 
other, he has forfeited the protection of his Maker. Here 
then is a mystery. The ancients, led by reasonings alone, 
perceived it with amazement, but did not solve the pro- 
blem. They attempted some explanation of it by the 
lame fiction of a golden age and its cession, where, by 
a circular mode of reasoning, they attribute the introduc- 
tion of vice to their gods having deserted the earth, and 
the desertion of the gods to the introduction of vice.* 

* Km TOTS d-/j TTpo^ oXu/xTTOu dno 'j^Oovoq eopodsf^^j 
AsuxoKTCv <papss(T(Tt xaXo(pa/j.svaj /poa xalov^ 
AOwmTOi^j p.tTa (puXov hov, 7:po?U7:o'^T avdpio7too<; 
Atdax; /.at Nepscnq- to. 8s XstiJ.'STai aXysa kuypa 
0vrjTut<; a^dpajTzoifft, xaxoo d^ oox i.<T(TSTat aXxrj. 

Hesiod. opeka et Dies, lib. i., 1. 195. 
" VIcta jacet Pietas : et Virgo csede madentes, 
Ultima coelestum terras Astrsea reliquit." 

Ovid. Met amor. 1. i., fab. 4. 
'' Paulatim deinde ad Superos Astrasa recessit, 
Hac comite atque duas pariter fugere sorores." 
Juvenal, Sat. vL 1. 19. 



326 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

This, however, was the logic of the poets; the philo- 
sophers disregarded the fable, but did not dispute the fact 
it was intended to account for. They often hint at hu- 
man degeneracy, and some unknown curse hanging over 
our being, and even coming into the world along with us. 
Pliny, in the preface to his seventh book, has this remark- 
able passage : '^ The animal about to rule over the rest 
of created animals, lies weeping, bound hand and foot, 
making his first entrance upon life with sharp pangs, 
and tJiiSj for no other crime than that he is horn man.'^ 
Cicero, in a passage, for the preservation of which we are 
indebted to St. Augustine, gives a yet stronger idea of an 
existing degeneracy in human nature : "Man," says he, 
" comes into existence not as from the hands of a mother, 
but of a step-dame nature, with a body feeble, naked, 
and fragile, and a mind exposed to anxiety and care, ab- 
ject in fear, unmeet for labor, prone to licentiousness, in 
which, however, there still dwell some sparks of the 
divine mind, though obscured, and, as it were, in ruins." 
And, in another place, he intimates it as a current opi- 
nion, that man comes into the world as into a state of 
punishment expiatory of crimes committed in some 
previous stage of existence, of which we now retain no 
recollection. 

From these proofs, and from daily observations and 
experience, there is every ground for concluding that 
man is in a state of misery and depravity quite incon- 
sistent with the happiness for which, by a benevolent 
God, he must have been created. We see glaring marks 
of this in our own times. Prejudice alone blinds us to 
the absurdity and the horror of those systematic murders 
which go by the name of wars, where man falls on man, 
brother slaughters brother, where death, in every variety 
of horror, jDreys '' on the finely fibred human frame,'' and 
where the cry of the widow and the orphan rise up to 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 327 

heaven long after the thunder of the fight and the clang 
of arms have ceased, and the bones of sons, brothers, and 
husbands slain are grown white on the field. Customs 
like these vouch, with most miraculous organs, for the 
depravity of the human heart, and these are not the 
most mournful of those considerations which present 
themselves to the mind of the thinking man. 

Private life is equally fertile in calamitous perversion 
of reason and extreme accumulation of misery. On the 
one hand, we see a large proportion of men sedulously 
employed in the education of their own ruin, pursuing 
vice in all its varieties, and sacrificing the peace and 
happiness of the innocent and unoffending to their own 
brutal gratifications ; and on the other, pain, misfortune, 
and misery, overwhelming alike the good and the bad, 
the provident and the improvident. But too general a 
view would distract our attention : let the reader pardon 
me if I suddenly draw him away from the survey of the 
crowds of life to a few detached scenes. We will select 
a single picture at random. The character is common. 

Behold that beautiful female who is rallying a well- 
dressed young man with so much gaiety and humor. 
Did you ever see so lovely a countenance ? There is an 
expression of vivacity in her fine dark eye which quite 
captivates one ; and her smile, were it a little less bold, 
would be bewitching. How gay and careless she seems ! 
One would suppose she had a very light and happy 
heart. Alas ! how appearances deceive ! This gaiety is 
all feigned. It is her business to please, and beneath a 
fair and painted outside she conceals an inquiet and 
forlorn breast. When she was yet very young, an en- 
gaging but dissolute young man took advantage of her 
simplicity, and of the affection with which he had in- 
spired her, to betray her virtue. At first her infamy 



328 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

cost her many tears ; but habit wore away this remorse, 
leaving only a kind of indistinct regret, and, as she 
fondly loved her betrayer, she experienced, at times, a 
mingled pleasure even in this abandoned situation. But 
this was soon over. Her lover, on pretence of a journey 
into the country, left her for ever. She soon afterwards 
heard of his marriage, with an agony of grief which few 
can adequately conceive, and none describe. The calls 
of want, however, soon subdued the more distracting 
ebullitions of anguish. She had no choice left ; all the 
gates of virtue were shut upon her, and though she really 
abhorred the course, she was obliged to betake herself 
to vice for support. Her next keeper possessed her 
person without her heart. She has since passed through 
several hands, and has found, by bitter experience, that 
the vicious, on whose generosity she is ■ thrown, are de- 
void of all feeling but that of self-gratification, and that 
even the wages of prostitution are reluctantly and grudg- 
ingly paid. She now looks on all men as sharpers. 
She smiles but to entangle and destroy, and while she 
simulates fondness, is intent only on the extorting of 
that, at best poor pittance, which her necessities loudly 
demand. Thoughtless as she may seem, she is not with- 
out an idea of her forlorn and wretched situation, and 
she looks only to sudden death as her refuge, against 
that time when her charms shall cease to allure the eye 
of incontinence, when even the lowest haunts of infamy 
shall be shut against her, and, without a friend or a 
hope, she must sink under the pressure of want and 
disease. 

But we will now shift the scene a little, and select an- 
other object. Behold yon poor weary wretch, who, with 
a child wrapt in her arms, with difiiculty drags along 
the road. The man with a knapsack, who is walking 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. ^^9 



before her, is her husband, and is inarching to join his 
regiment. He has been spending, at a dram-shop, in 
the town they have just left, the supply which the pale 
and weak appearance of his wife proclaims was neces- 
sary for her sustenance. He is now half drunk, and is 
venting the artificial spirits which intoxication excites 
in the abuse of his weary help-mate behind him. She 
seems to listen to his reproaches in patient silence. Her 
face will tell you more than many words, as with a wan 
and meaning look she surveys the little wretch who is 
asleep on her arm. The turbulent brutality of the man 
excites no attention: she is pondering on the future 
chance of life, and the probable lot of her heedless 
little one. 

One other picture, and I have done. The man pacing 
with a slow step and languid aspect over yon prison 
court, was once a fine dashing fellow, the admiration of 
the ladies and the envy of the men. He is the only repre-. 
sentative of a once respectable family, and is brought to 
this situation by unlimited indulgence at that time when 
the check is most necessary. He began to figure in 
genteel hfe at an early age. His misjudging mother, to 
whose sole care he was left, thinking no alliance too 
good for her darling, cheerfully supplied his extrava- 
gance, under the idea that it would not last long, and 
that it would enable him to shine in those circles where 
she wished him to rise. But she soon found that habits 
of prodigality once well gained are never eradicated. 
His fortune, though genteel, was not adequate to such 
habits of expense. His unhappy parent lived to see 
him make a degrading alliance, and come in danger of 
a jail, and then died of a broken heart. His affairs soon 
wound themselves up. His debts were enormous, and 
he had nothing to pay them with. He has now been in 



330 PEOSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

that prison for many years, and since lie is excluded 
from the benefit of an insolvency act, lie lias made up 
his mind to the idea of ending his days there. His wife, 
whose beauty had decoyed him, since she found he 
could not support her, deserted him for those who could, 
leaving him without friend or companion, to pace, with 
measured steps, over the court of a country jail, and 
endeavor to beguile the lassitude of imprisonment, by 
thinking on the days that are gone, or counting the 
squares in his grated window in every possible direction, 
backwards, forwards, and across, till he sighs to find 
the sum always the same, and that the more anxiously 
we strive to beguile the moments in their course the 
more sluggishly they travel. 

If these are accurate pictures of some of the varieties 
of human suffering, and if such pictures are common 
even to triteness, what conclusions must we draw as to 
the condition of man in general, and what must be the 
prevailing frame of mind of him who meditates much 
on these subjects, and who, unbracing the whole tissue 
of causes and effects, sees Misery invariably the offspring 
of Vice, and Vice existing in hostility to the intentions 
and wishes of God ? Let the meditative man turn where 
he will he finds traces of the depraved state of l^ature 
and her consequent misery. History presents him with 
little but murder, treachery, and crime of every descrip- 
tion. Biography only strengthens the view, by concen- 
trating it. The philosophers remind him of the existence 
of evil, by their lessons how to avoid or endure it ; and 
the very poets themselves afiford him pleasure, not un- 
connected with regret, as either by contrast, exempli- 
fication, or deduction, they bring the world and its 
circumstances before his eyes. 

That such a one then is prone to sadness, who will 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



S31 



wonder? If sucli meditations are beneficial, who will 
blame them ? The discovery of evil naturally leads us to 
contribute our mite towards the alleviation of the wretch- 
edness it introduces. "While we lament vice, we learn to 
shun it ourselves, and to endeavor, if possible, to arrest 
its progress in those around us; and in the course of 
these high and lofty speculations, we are insensibly led 
to think humbly of ourselves, and to lift up our thoughts 
to Him who is alone the fountain of all perfection and 
the source of all good. 

W. 



MELAI^CHOLY HOURS.— IsTo. X. 

" La rime est une esclave, et ne doit qu'obeir." 

BoiLEAu, L'Art Poetique. 

Experiments in versification have not often been suc- 
cessful. Sir Philip Sidney, with all his genius, great it 
undoubtedly was, could not impart grace to his hexa- 
meters or fluency to his sapphics. Spenser's stanza was 
new, but his verse was familiar to the ear ; and though 
his rhymes were frequent even to satiety, he seems to 
have avoided the awkwardness of novelty, and the diffi- 
culty of unpractised metres. Donne had not music 
enough to render his broken rhyming couplets sufiferable, 
and neither his wit nor his pointed satire were sufficient 
to rescue him from that neglect which his uncouth and 
rugged versification speedily superinduced. 

In our times, Mr. Southey has given grace and melody 
to some of the Latin and Greek measures, and Mr. Bowles 
has written rhyming heroics, wherein the sense is trans- 
mitted from couplet to couplet, and the pauses are varied 
with all the freedom of blank verse, without exciting 



332 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

any sensation of ruggedness, or offending the nicest ear. 
But these are minor efforts : the former of these exqui- 
site poets has taken a yet wider range, and in his "Tha- 
laba, the Destroyer," has spurned at all the received laws 
of metre, and framed a fabric of verse altogether his 
own. 

An innovation, so bold as that of Mr. Southey, was 
sure to meet with disapprobation and ridicule. The 
world naturally looks with suspicion on systems which 
contradict established principles, and refuse to quadrate 
with habits, which, as they have been used to, men are 
apt to think cannot be improved upon. The opposition 
which has been made to the metre of "Thalaba," is, 
therefore, not so much to be imputed to its want of har- 
mony as to the operation of existing prejudices : and it 
is fair to conclude, that, as these prejudices are softened 
by usages, and the strangeness of novelty wears off, the 
peculiar features of this lyrical frame of verse will be 
more candidly appreciated, and its merits more unre- 
servedly acknowledged. Whoever is conversant with 
the writings of this author, will have observed and ad- 
mired that greatness of mind, and comprehension of 
intellect, by which he is enabled, on all occasions, to 
throw off the shackles of habit and prepossession. 
Southey never treads in the beaten track; his thoughts, 
while they are those of nature, carry that cast of origi- 
nality which is the stamp and testimony of genius. He 
views things through a peculiar phasis, and while he has 
the feelings of a man, they are those of a man almost 
abstracted from mortality, and reflecting on, and painting 
the scenes of life, as if he were a mere spectator, unin- 
fluenced by his own connection with the objects he sur- 
veys. To this faculty of bold discrimination I attribute 
many of Mr. Southey's peculiarities as a poet. He never 



HEN KY KIR KE WHITE. 333 

seems to inquire how other men would treat a subject, or 
what may happen to be the usage of the times ; but filled 
with that strong sense of fitness, which is the result of 
bold and unshackled thought, he fearlessly pursues that 
course which his own sense of propriety points out. 

It is very evident to me, and, I should conceive, to all 
who consider the subject attentively, that the structure 
of verse, which Mr. Southey has promulgated in his 
'' Thalaba," was neither adopted rashly, nor from any 
vain emulation of originality. As the poet himself hap- 
pily observes, "-It is the arabesque ornament of an Arabian 
tale.'' 1^0 one would wish to see the "Joan of Arc" in 
such a garb ; but the wild freedom of the versification 
of " Thalaba" accords well with the romantic wildness 
of the story, and I do not hesitate to say, that, had any 
other known measure been adopted, the poem would 
have been deprived of half its beauty and all its propriety. 
In blank verse it would have been absurd ; in rhyme 
insipid. The lyrical manner is admirably adapted to the 
sudden transitions and rapid connections of an Arabian 
tale, while its variety precludes tedium, and its full, 
because unshackled, cadence satisfies the ear with legiti- 
mate harmony. At first, indeed, the verse may appear 
uncouth, because it is new to the ear : but I defy any 
man who has any feeling of melody, to peruse the whole 
poem without paying tribute to the sweetness of its flow 
and the gracefulness of its modulations. 

In judging of this extraordinary poem, we should con- 
sider it as a genuine lyric production, — we should con- 
ceive it as recited to the harp, in times when such relations 
carried nothing incredible with them. Carrying this 
idea along with us, the admirable art of the poet will 
strike us with tenfold conviction ; the abrupt sublimity 
of his transitions, the sublime simplicity of his manner, 



334 PEOSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

and the delicate touclies by wMcli lie connects the various 
parts of his narrative, will then be more strongly 
observable, and we shall, in particular, remark the un- 
common felicity with which he has adapted his versifi- 
cation, and in the midst of the wildest irregularity, left 
nothing to shock the ear, or offend the judgment. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— m. XL 

THE PKOGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE. 

Few histories would be more worthy of attention than 
that of the progress of knowledge, from its first dawn to 
the time of its meridian splendor, among the- ancient 
Greeks. Unfortunately, however, the precautions which, 
in this early period, were almost generally taken to 
confine all knowledge to a particular branch of men ; 
and when the Greeks began to contend for the palm 
among learned nations, their backwardness to acknow- 
ledo-e the sources from whence they derived the first 
principles of their philosophy, have served to wrap this 
interesting subject in almost impenetrable obscurity. 
Few vestiges, except the Egyptian hieroglyphics, now 
remain of the learning of the more ancient world. Of 
the two millions of verses said to have been written by 
the Chaldean Zoroaster,* we have no relics, and the 
oracles which go under his name are pretty generally 
acknowledged to be spurious. 

The Greeks unquestionably derived their philosophy 
from the Egyptians and Chaldeans. Both Pythagoras 
and Plato had visited those countries for the advantage 
of learning ; and if we may credit the received accounts 

* Pliny. 



HENRY KIKKE WHITE. 335 

of the former of tliese illustrious sages, he was regularly 
initiated in the schools of Egypt, during the period of 
twenty-two years that he resided in tliat country, and 
became the envy and admiration of the Egj^tians them- 
selves. Of the Pythagorean doctrines we have some 
accounts remaining, and nothing is wanting to render 
the systems of Platonism complete and intelligible. In 
the dogmas of these philosophers, therefore, we may be 
able to trace the learning of these primitive nations, 
though our conclusions must be cautiously drawn, and 
much must be allowed to the active intelligence of two 
Greeks. Ovid's short summary of the philosophy of 
Pythagoras deserves attention : — 

'' Isque, licet coeli regione remotos 
Mente Deos adiit : et, quae natura negabat 
Visibiis liiimanis, oculis ea pectoris Lausit. 
Cumque animo et vigili perspexerat omnia cura ; 
In medium discenda dabat : coetumque silentum, 
Dictaque mirantum, magni primordia mundi 
Et rerum causas et quid natura docebat, 
Quid Deus : unde nives : qu£e fulminis esset origo 
Jupiter, an venti, discussa nube, tonarent, 
Quid quateret terras ; qua sidera lege mearent 
Et quodcumque latet." 

If we are to credit this account, and it is corroborated 
by many other testimonies, Pythagoras searches deeply 
into natural causes. Some have imagined, and strongly 
asserted, that his central jfire was figurative of the sun, 
and, therefore, that he had an idea of its real situation ; 
but this opinion, so generally adopted, may be combated 
with some degree of reason. I should be inclined to 
think Pythagoras gained his idea of the great, central, 
vivifying, and creative fire from the Chaldeans, and that, 
therefore, it was the representative not of the sun, but of 



336 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

the Deity. Zoroaster taught that there was one God, 
Eternal, the Father of the Universe : he assimilated the 
Deity to light, and applied to him the names of Light, 
Beams, and Splendor. The Magi, corrupting this re- 
presentation of the Supreme Being, and taking literally 
what was meant as an allegory or symbol, supposed that 
God was this central fire, the source of heat, light, and 
life, residing in the centre of the universe ; and from 
hence they introduced among the Chaldeans the worship 
of fire. That Pythagoras was tainted with this supersti- 
tion is well known. On the testimony of Plutarch, his 
disciples held, that in the midst of the world is fire, or in 
the midst of the four elements is the fiery globe of Unity, 
or Monad — the procreative, nutritive, and excitative 
power. The sacred fire of Yesta, among the Greeks and 
Latins, was a remain of this doctrine. 

As the limits of this paper will not allow me to take 
in all the branches of this subject, I shall confine my 
attention to the opinions held by these early nations of 
the nature of the Godhead. 

Amidst the corruptions introduced by the Magi, we 
may discern, with tolerable certainty, that Zoroaster 
taught the worship of the one true God : and Thales, 
Pythagoras, and Plato, who had all been instituted in 
the mysteries of the Chaldeans, taught the same doctrine. 
These philosophers likewise asserted the omnipotence 
and eternity of God ; and that he was the creator of all 
things, and the governor of the universe. Plato de- 
cisively supported the doctrines of future rewards and 
punishments ; and Pythagoras, struck with the idea of 
the omnipresence of the Deity, defined him as animus 
fer universal mundi partes omnemque naturam commeans 
atque diffusus, ex quo omnia quce nascuntur animalia vitam 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 337 

ca'piunt^ — an intelligence moving upon, and diffused over 
all the parts of the universe and all nature, from which 
all animals derive their existence. As for the swarm of 
gods worshipped both in Egypt and Greece, it is evident 
they were only esteemed as inferior deities. In the time 
of St. Paul, there was a temple at Athens inscribed to 
the unknown God : and Hesiod makes them younger 
than the earth and heaven. 

E^ o-pyjiq ouq Fata /.at Oupavoq topvq ertxTou 
Ot T £■/. Tiov eysvovro (Saoc dojT'rjpsq eoMv. 

Theog. 

If Pythagoras and the other philosophers who suc- 
ceeded him paid honor to these gods, they either did it 
through fear of encountering ancient prejudices, or they 
reconciled it by recurring to the Demonology of their 
masters, the Chaldeans, who maintained the agency of 
good and bad demons, who presided over different things, 
and were distinguished into the powers of light and dark- 
ness, heat and cold. It is remarkable, too, that amongst 
all these people, whether Egyptians or Chaldeans, Greeks 
or Eomans, as well as every other nation under the sun, 
sacrifices were made to the gods, in order to render them 
propitious to their wishes, or to expiate their offences — a 
fact which proves that the conviction of the interference 
of the Deity in human affairs is universal : and what is 
much more important, that this custom is primitive, and 
derived from the first inhabitants of the world. 

'I* ^^ ^* ^i *|C 3p 



* Lactantius Div. Inst. lib. cap. 5, etiam, Minucius Felix. " Pythagoree 
Deus est animus per universam rerum naturam commeans atque intentus ex 
quo etiam animalium omnium vita capiatur." 

22 



338 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



MELANCHOLY HOTJES.— No. XU, 

While the seat of empire was yet at Byzantiuin, and 
tliat city was tke centre, not only of domain, but of 
learning and politeness, a certain hermit had fixed his 
residence in a cell, on the banks of the Athyras, at the 
distance of about ten miles from the capital. The spot 
was retired, although so near the great city, and^ was 
protected, as well by woods and precipices, as by the awful 
reverence with which, at that time, all ranks beheld the 
character of a recluse. Indeed the poor old man, who 
tenanted the little hollow, at the summit of a crag, 
beneath which the Athyras rolls its impetuous torrent, 
was not famed for the severity of his penances or the 
strictness of his mortification. That - he was either 
studious or protracted his devotions to a late hour, was 
evident, for his lamp was often seen to stream through 
the trees which shaded his dwelling, when accident called 
any of the peasants from their beds at unseasonable hours. 
Be this as it may, no miracles were imputed to him ; the 
sick rarely came to petition for the benefit of his prayers, 
and, though some both loved him and had good reason 
for loving him, yet many undervalued him for the want 
of that very austerity which the old man seemed most 
desirous to avoid. 

It was evening, and the long shadows of the Thracian 
mountains were extending still farther and farther along 
the plains, when this old man was disturbed in his medi- 
tations by the approach of a stranger. " How far is it to 
Byzantium?" was the question put by the traveller? 
"Not far to those who know the country," replied the 
hermit, " but a stranger would not easily find his way 
through the windings of these woods and the intricacies 



HENKY KIRKE WHITE. 339 

of the plains beyond tliem. Do you see that blue mist 
which stretches along the bounding line of the horizon 
as far as the trees will permit the eye to trace it ? That 
is the Propontis ; and higher up on the left, the city of 
Constantinople rears its proud head above the waters. 
But I would dissuade thee, stranger, from pursuing thy 
journey farther to-night. Thou mayst rest in the village, 
which is half-way down the hill; or if thou wilt share 
my supper of roots, and put up with a bed of leaves, my 
cell is open to thee." ''I thank thee, father," replied 
the youth, "I am weary with my journey, and will accept 
thy proffered hospitality." They ascended the rock to- 
gether. The hermit's cell was the work of nature. It 
penetrated far into the rock, and in the innermost recess 
was a little chapel, furnished with a crucifix, and a 
human skull, the objects of the hermit's nightly and daily 
contemplation, for neither of them received his adoration. 
That corruption had not as yet crept into the Christian 
Church. The hermit now lighted up a fire of dried sticks 
(for the nights are very piercing in the regions about the 
Hellespont and the Bosphorus), and then proceeded to 
prepare their vegetable meal. While he was thus em- 
ployed, his young guest surveyed, with surprise, the 
dwelling which he was to inhabit for the night. A cold 
rock-hole, on the bleak summit of one of the Thracian 
hills seemed to him a comfortless choice for a weak and 
solitary old man. The rude materials of his scanty fur- 
niture still more surprised him. A table fixed to the 
ground, a wooden bench, an earthen lamp, a number of 
rolls of papyrus and vellum, and a heap of leaves in a 
corner, the hermit's bed, were all his stock. ^'Is it 
possible," at length he exclaimed, "that you can tenant 
this comfortless cave, with these scanty accommodations, 
through choice? Go with me, old man, to Constan- 



S40 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

tiiiople, and receive from me those conveniences wliicli 
befit your years." "And what art thou going to do at 
Constantinople, my young friend?" said the hermit, ''for 
thy dialect bespeaks thee a native of more southern 
regions. Am I mistaken, art thou not an Athenian?" 
"I am an Athenian," replied the youth, "by birth, but 
I hope I am not an Athenian in vice. I have left my 
degenerate birthplace in quest of happiness. I have 
learned from my master, Speusippus, a genuine asserter 
of the much-belied doctrines of Epicurus, that as a future 
state is a mere phantom and vagary of the brain, it is the 
only true wisdom to enjoy life while we have it. But 
I have learned from him also, that virtue alone is true 
enjoyment. I am resolved therefore to enjoy life, and 
that too with virtue, as my companion and guide. My 
travels are begun with the design of discovering where I 
can best unite both objects ; enjoyment the most exquisite, 
with virtue the most perfect. You perhaps may have 
reached the latter, my good father ; the former you have 
certainly missed. To-morrow I shall continue my search, 
At Constantinople I shall laugh and sing with the gay, 
meditate with the sober, drink deeply of every unpolluted 
pleasure, and taste all the fountains of wisdom and philo- 
sophy. I have heard much of the accomplishments of 
the women of Byzantium. With us females are mere 
household slaves ; here, I am told, they have minds. I 
almost promise myself that I shall marry, and settle at 
Constantinople, where the loves and graces seem alone 
to reside, and where even the tvomen have minds. My 
good father, how the wind roars about this aerial nest of 
yours, and here you sit, during the long cold nights, all 
alone, cold and cheerless, when Constantinople is just at 
your feet, with all its joys, its comforts, and its elegancies. 
I perceive that the philosophers of our sect, who succeeded 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. ^41 

Epicurus, were right, when they taught that there might 
be virtue without enjoyment, and that virtue without 
enjoyment is not worth the having." The face of the 
youth kindled with animation as he spake these words, 
and he visibly enjoyed the consciousness of superior in- 
telligence. The old man sighed, and was silent. As they 
ate their frugal supper, both parties seemed involved in 
deep thought. The young traveller was dreaming of the 
Byzantine women ; his host seemed occupied with far 
different meditations. ^' So you are travelling to Con- 
stantinople in search of happiness?" at length exclaimed 
the hermit. "I, too, have been a suitor of that divinity, 
and it may be of use to you to hear how I have fared. 
The history of my life will serve to fill up the interval 
before we retire to rest, and my experience may not prove 
altogether useless to one who is about to go the same 
journey which I have finished. 

" These scanty hairs of mine were not always gray, 
nor these limbs decrepid : I was once like thee, young, 
fresh, and vigorous, full of delightful dreams and gay 
anticipations. Life seemed a garden of sweets, a path 
of roses ; and I thought I had but to choose in what way 
I would be happy. I will pass over the incidents of my 
boyhood, and come to my maturer years. I had scarcely 
seen twenty summers when I formed one of those extra- 
vagant and ardent attachments of which youth is so 
susceptible. It happened that, at that time, I bore arms 
under the Emperor Theodosius in his expedition against 
the Goths, who had overrun a part of Thrace. In our 
return from a successful campaign we staid some time 
in the Greek cities which border on the Euxine. In one 
of these cities I became acquainted with a female, whose 
form was not more elegant than her mind was cultivated 
and her heart untainted. I had done her family some 



342 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

trivial services, and her gratitude spoke too warmly to 
my intoxicated brain to leave any doubt on my mind 
that she loved me. The idea was too exquisitely pleasing 
to be soon dismissed. I sought every occasion of being 
with her. Her mild persuasive voice seemed like the 
music of heaven to my ears, after the toils and roughness 
of a soldier's life. I had a friend too, whose converse, 
next to that of the dear object of my secret love, was 
most dear to me. He formed the third in all our meet- 
ings, and beyond the enjoyment of the society of these 
two I had not a wish. I had never yet spoken explicitly 
to my female friend, but I fondly hoped we understood 
each other. Why should I dwell on the subject? I 
was mistaken. My friend threw himself on my mercy. 
I found that he, not I, was the object of her affections. 
Young man, you may conceive, but I cannot describe 
what I felt, as I joined their hands. The stroke was 
severe, and, for a time, unfitted me for the duties of my 
station. I suffered the army to leave the place without 
accompanying it : and thus lost the rewards of my past 
services, and forfeited the favor of my sovereign. This 
was another source of anxiety and regret to me, as my 
mind recovered its wonted tone. But the mind of youth, 
however deeply it may feel for awhile, eventually rises 
up from dejection, and regains its wonted elasticity. 
That vigor by which the spirit recovers itself from the 
depths of useless regret, and enters upon new prospects 
with its accustomed ardor, is only subdued by time. I 
now applied myself to the study of philosophy, under a 
Greek master, and all my ambition was directed towards 
letters. But ambition is not quite enough to fill a young 
man's heart. I still felt a void there, and sighed as I 
reflected on the happiness of my friend. At the time 
when I visited the object of my first love, a young 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



343 



Christian woman, lier frequent companion, had some- 
times taken my attention. She was an Ionian by birth, 
and had all the softness and pensive intelligence which 
her countrywomen are said to possess when unvitiated 
by the corruption so prevalent in that delightful region. 
You are no stranger to the contempt with which the 
Greeks then treated, and do still, in some places, treat 
the Christians. This young woman bore that contempt 
with a calmness which surprised me. There were then 
but few converts to that religion in those parts, and its 
profession was therefore more exposed to ridicule and 
persecution from its strangeness. Notwithstanding her 
religion, I thought I could love this interesting and 
amiable female, and in spite of my former mistake, I 
had the vanity to imagine I was not indiiferent to her. 
As our intimacy increased, I learned, to my astonish- 
ment, that she regarded me as one involved in ignorance 
and error, and that, although she felt an affection for 
me, yet she would never become my wife while I re- 
mained devoted to the religion of my ancestors. Piqued 
at this discovery, I received the books, which she now 
for the first time put into my hands, with pity and con- 
tempt. I expected to find them nothing but the reposi- 
tories of a miserable and deluded superstition, more 
presuming than the mystical leaves of the Sibyls, or the 
obscure triads of Zoroaster. How was I mistaken! 
There was much which I could not at all comprehend ; 
but, in the midst of this darkness, the efiect of my igno- 
rance, I discerned a system of morality, so exalted, so 
exquisitely pure, and so far removed from all I would 
have conceived of the most perfect virtue, that all the 
philosophy of the Grecian world seemed worse than 
dross in the comparison. My former learning had only 
served to teach me that something was wanting to com- 



344 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF H. K. WHITE. 

plete tlie systems of philosophers. Here that invisible 
link was supplied, and I could even then observe a har- 
mony and consistency in the whole, which carried irre- 
sistible conviction to my mind. I will not enlarge on 
this subject. Christianity is not a mere set of opinions 
to be embraced by the understanding. It is the work 
of the heart as well as the head. Let it suffice to say, 
that, in time, I became a Christian and the husband of 
Sapphira. 



REFLECTIONS. 



REFLECTIONS. 



01^ PRAYER. 

If there be any duty wMcli our Lord Jesus Clirist 
seems to have considered as more indispensably neces- 
sary towards the formation of a true Christian it is that 
of prayer. He has taken every opportunity of impress- 
ing on our minds the absolute need in which we stand 
of the divine assistance, both to persist in the paths of 
righteousness and to fly from the allurements of a fasci- 
nating but dangerous life ; and he has directed us to the 
only means of obtaining that assistance in constant and 
habitual appeals to the throne of Grace. Prayer is cer- 
tainly the foundation stone of the superstructure of a re- 
ligious life, for a man can neither arrive at true piety nor 
persevere in its ways when attained, unless with sincere 
and continued fervency, and with the most unaffected 
anxiety, he implore Almighty God to grant him his per- 
petual grace, to guard and restrain him from all those 
derelictions of heart to which we are, by nature, but too 
prone. I should think it an insult to the understanding 
of a Christian to dwell on the necessity of prayer, and 
before we can harangue an infidel on its efficacy, we 
must convince him, not only that the Being to whom we 



348 



PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



address ourselves really exists, but that lie condescends 
to liear and to answer our humble supplications. As 
these objects are foreign to my present purpose, I shall 
take my leave of the necessity of prayer, as acknow- 
ledged by all to whom this paper is addressed, and shall 
be content to expatiate on the strong inducements which 
we have to lift up our souls to our Maker in the language 
of supplication and of praise. To depict the happiness 
which results to the man of true piety from the exercise 
of this duty, and, lastly, to warn mankind, lest their fer- 
vency should carry them into the extreme of fanaticism, 
and their prayers, instead of being silent and unassum- 
ing expressions of gratitude to their Maker, and hum- 
ble entreaties for his favoring grace, should degenerate 
into clamorous vociferations and insolent gesticulations, 
utterly repugnant to the true spirit of prayer and to the 
language of a creature addressing his Creator. 

There is such an exalted delight to a regenerate being 
in the act of prayer, and he anticipates with so much 
pleasure, amid the toils of business, and the crowds of 
the world, the moment when he shall be able to pour 
out his soul without interruption into the bosom of his 
Maker, that I am persuaded, that the degree of desire 
or repugnance which a man feels to the performance of 
this amiable duty is an infallible criterion of his accep- 
tance with God. Let the unhappy child of dissipation — 
let the impure voluptuary boast of his short hours of ex- 
quisite enjoyment; even in the degree of bliss they are 
infinitely inferior to the delight of which the righteous man 
participates in his private devotions, while in their op- 
posite consequences they lead to a no less wide extreme 
than heaven and hell, a state of positive happiness and 
a state of positive misery. If there were no other in- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 349 

ducement to prayer than the very gratification it imparts 
to the soul, it would deserve to be regarded as the most 
important object of a Christian; for nowhere else could 
he purchase so much calmness, so much resignation, 
and so much of that peace and repose of spirit, in which 
consists the chief happiness of this otherwise dark and 
stormy being. But to prayer, besides the inducement 
of momentary gratification, the very self-love implanted 
in our bosoms would lead us to resort, as the chief good, 
for our Lord hath said, " Ask, and it shall be given to thee ; 
knock, and it shall be opened ;" and not a supplication 
made in the true spirit of faith and humility but shall 
be answered ; not a request which is urged with un- 
feigned submission and lowliness of spirit but shall be 
granted, if it be consistent with our happiness either 
temporal or eternal. Of this happiness, however, the 
Lord God is the only judge; but this we do know, that 
whether our requests be granted or whether they be 
refused, all is working together for our ultimate benefit. 
When I say, that such of our requests and solicitations 
as are urged in the true spirit of meekness, humility, and 
submission, will indubitably be answered, I would wish 
to draw a line between supplications so urged, and those 
violent and vehement declamations, which, under the 
name of prayers, are sometimes heard to proceed from 
the lips of men professing to worship God in the spirit 
of meekness and truth. Surely I need not impress on 
any reasonable mind, how directly contrary these in- 
flamed and bombastic harangues are to every precept of 
Christianity, and every idea of the deference due from a 
poor worm, like man, to the Omnipotent and all great 
God. Can we hesitate a moment, as to which is more 
acceptable in his sight — the diffident, the lowly, the re- 



350 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

tiring, and yet solemn and impressive form of worship of 
our excellent Cliurcli, and tlie wild and labored excla- 
mations, the authoritative and dictatory clamors of men 
who, forgetting the immense distance at which they stand 
from the awful Being whom they address boldly and with 
unblushing front, speak to their God as to an equal, and 
almost dare to prescribe to his infinite wisdom, the steps 
it shall pursue. How often has the silent yet eloquent 
eye of misery wrung from the reluctant hand of charity 
that relief which has been denied to the loud and impor- 
tunate beggar ; and, is Heaven to be taken by storm ? 
Are we to wrest the Almighty from his purposes by voci- 
feration and importunity ? God forbid ! It is a fair and 
a reasonable, though a melancholy inference, that the 
Lord shuts his ears against prayers like these, and leaves 
the deluded supplicants to follow the impulses of their 
own headstrong passions, without a guide, and destitute 
of every ray of his pure and holy light. 

Those mock apostles, who thus disgrace the worship 
of the true God by their extravagance, are very fond of 
appearing to imitate the conduct of our Saviour during 
his mortal peregrination; but how contrary were his 
habits to those of these deluded men ! Did he teach his 
disciples to insult the ear of Heaven with noise and cla- 
mor ? Were his precepts those of fanaticism and passion ? 
Did he inflame the minds of his hearers with vehement 
and declamatory harangues ? Did he pray with all this 
confidence — this arrogance — this assurance? How dif- 
ferent was his conduct ! He divested wisdom of all its 
pomp and parade, in order to suit it to the capacities of 
the meanest of his auditors. He spake to them in the 
lowly language of parable and similitude, and when he 
prayed, did he instruct his hearers to attend him with a 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 351 

loud chorus of Amens ? Did lie (participating as lie did 
in tlie Godhead), did he assume the tone of sufficiency 
and the language of assurance ? Far from it ! he prayed, 
and he instructed his disciples to pray, in lowliness and 
meekness of spirit ; he instructed them to approach the 
throne of Grace with fear and trembling, silently and 
with the deepest awe and veneration ; and he evinced 
by his condemnation of the prayer of the self-sufficient 
Pharisee, opposed to that of the diffident publican, the 
light in which those were considered in the eyes of the 
Lord, who, setting the terrors of his Godhead at de- 
fiance, and boldly building on their own unworthiness, 
approached him with confidence and pride. * * * 



There is nothing so indispensably necessary towards 
the establishment of future earthly, as well as heavenly 
happiness, as early impressions of piety. For as religion 
is the sole source of all human welfare and peace, so 
habits of religious reflection, in the spring of life, are the 
only means of arriving at a due sense of the importance 
of divine concerns in age, except by the bitter and ha- 
zardous roads of repentance and remorse. There is not 
a more awful spectacle in nature than the deathbed of a 
late repentance. The groans of agony which attend the 
separation of the soul from the body, heightened by the 
heart-piercing exclamation of mental distress, the dread- 
ful ebullitions of horror and remorse, intermingled with 
the half-fearful, but fervent deprecations of the divine 
wrath, and prayers for the divine mercy, joined to the 
pathetic implorings to the friends who stand weeping 
around the bed of the sinner to pray for him, and to take 
warning from his awful end, contribute to render this 



352 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

scene siicli an impressive and terrible memento of the 
state of those who have neglected their souls, as must 
bring to a due sense of his duty the most hardened of 
infidels. 

It is to insure you, my young friends, as far as precept 
can insure you, from horrors like these in your last mo- 
ments, that I write this little book, in the hopes, that 
through the blessing of the Divine Being, it may be 
useful in inducing you to reflect on the importance of 
early piety, and lead you into the cheerful performance 
of your duties to God and to your own souls. In the 
pursuit of this plan, I shall, first, consider the bliss 
which results from a pious disposition, and the horrors 
of a wicked one. Secondly, the necessity of an early 
attention to the concerns of the soul towards the esta- 
blishment of permanent religion, and its consequent hap- 
piness ; and, thirdly, I shall point out, and contrast, the 
last moments of those who hdve acted in conformity, or 
in contradiction, to the rules here laid down. 

The contrast between the lives of the good and the 
wicked man affords such convincing argument in support 
of the excellence of religion, that even those infidels who 
have dared to assert their disbelief of the doctrine of 
revelation, have confessed, that in a political point of 
view, if in no other, it ought to be maintained. Compare 
the peaceful and collected course of the virtuous and 
pious man with the turbulent irregularity and violence 
of him who neglects his soul for the allurements of vice, 
and judge for yourselves of the policy of the conduct of 
each, even in this world. Whose pleasures are the most 
exquisite ? Whose delights the most lasting ? Whose 
state is the most enviable ? His, who barters his hopes 
of eternal welfare for a few fleeting moments of brutal 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 353 

gratification, or his, who while he keeps a future state 
alone in his view, finds happiness in the conscientious 
perfi)rniance of his duties, and the scrupulous fulfilment 
of the end of his sojourn here ? Believe me, my friends, 
there is no comparison between them. The joys of the 
infatuated mortal who sacrifices his soul to his sen- 
sualities are mixed with bitterness and anguish. The 
voice of conscience rises distinctly to his ear, amid the 
shouts of intemperance and the sallies of obstreperous 
mirth. In the hour of rejoicing she whispers her appal- 
ling monitions to him, and his heart sinks within him, 
and the smile of triumphant villany is converted into 
the ghastly grin of horror and hopelessness. But, oh ! 
in the languid intervals of dissipation, in the dead hour 
of the night, when all is solitude and silence, when the 
soul is driven to commune with itself, and the voice of 
remorse, whose whispers were before half drowned in 
the noise of riot, rise dreadfully distinct — what !— what 
are his emotions !— Who can paint his agonies, his exe- 
crations, his despair ! Let that man lose again, in the 
vortex of fashion, and folly, and vice, the remembrance 
of his horrors ; let him smile, let him laugh and be 
merry : believe me, my dear readers, he is not happy, he 
is not careless, he is not the jovial being he appears to 
be. His heart is heavy within him ; he cannot stifle the 
reflections which assail him in the very moment of en- 
joyment ; but strip the painted veil from his bosom, lay 
aside the trappings of folly, and that man is miserable, 
and not only so, but he has purchased that misery at the 
expense of eternal torment. 

Let us oppose to this awful picture the life of the good 
man ; of him who rises in the morning, with cheerful- 
ness, to praise his Creator for all the good he hath be- 

23 



354 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

stowed upon him, and to perform with studious exactness 
the duties of his station, and lays himself down on his 
pillow in the evening in the sweet consciousness of the 
applause of his own heart. Place this man on the 
stormy seas of misfortune and sorrow — ^press him with 
afflictive dispensations of Providence — snatch from his 
arms the object of his affections — separate him for- 
ever from all he loved and held dear on earth, and leave 
him isolated and an outcast in the world ; — he is calm — 
he is composed — he is grateful — he weeps, for human 
nature is weak, but he still preserves his composure and 
resignation — -he still looks up to the Giver of all good 
with thankfulness and praise, and perseveres with calm- 
ness and fortitude in the paths of righteousness. His 
disappointments cannot overwhelm him, for his chief 
hopes were placed far, very far, beyond' the reach of 
human vicissitude. "He hath chosen that good part 
which none can take away from him." 

Here then lies the great excellence of religion and 
piety ; they not only lead to eternal happiness, but to the 
happiness of this world ; they not only insure everlast- 
ing bliss, but they are the sole means of arriving at that 
degree of felicity which this dark and stormy being is 
capable of, and are the sole supports in the hour of ad- 
versity and affliction. How infatuated then must that 
man be who can wilfully shut his eyes to his own wel- 
fare, and deviate from the paths of righteousness which 
lead to bliss. Even allowing him to entertain the erro- 
neous notion that religion does not lead to happiness in 
this life, his conduct is incompatible with every idea of 
a reasonable being. In the " Spectator" we find the fol- 
lowing image, employed to induce a conviction of the 
magnitude of this truth : " Supposing the whole body of 
the earth were a great ball, or mass of the finest sand. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 355 

and that a single grain, or particle of this sand, should 
be annihilated every thousand years; supposing then 
that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while 
this prodigious mass was consuming, by this slow 
method, till there was not a grain of it left, on condition 
that you were to be miserable ever after ; or supposing 
that you might be happy forever after on condition you 
would be miserable till the whole mass of sand were 
thus annihilated, at the rate, of one sand a thousand 
years ; which of these two cases would you make your 
choice ?" 

It must be confessed that in this case so many * '^ ^ 
* * * * Hs * 



The life of man is transient and unstable ; its fairest 
passages are but a lighter shade of evil, and yet those 
passages form but a disproportionate part of the picture. 
We all seek happiness, though with difierent degrees of 
avidity, while the fickle object of our pursuits continually 
evades the grasp of those who are the most eager in the 
chase ; and, perhaps, at last throws herself into the arms 
of those who had entirely lost sight of her, and who, 
when they are most blessed with her enjoyment, are 
least conscious that they possess her. Were the objects 
in which we placed the consummation of our wishes 
always virtuous, and the means employed to arrive at 
the bourn of our desires uniformly good, there can be 
little doubt that the aggregate of mankind would be as 
happy as is consistent with the state in which they live ; 
but, unfortunately, vicious men pursue vicious ends by 
vicious means, and by so doing not only insure their 
own misery, but they overturn and destroy the fair de- 
signs of the wiser and the better of their kind. Thus 



356 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF H. K. WHITE. 

he who has no idea of a bliss beyond the gratification of 
his brutal appetites, involves in the crime of seduction 
the peace and the repose of a good and happy family, 
and an individual act of evil extends itself by a con- 
tinued impulse over a large portion of society. It is 
thus that men of bad minds become the pests of the 
societies of which they happen to be members. It is 
thus that the virtuous among men pay the bitter penalty 
of the crimes and follies of their unworthy fellows. 

Men who have passed their whole lives in the lap of 
luxury and enjoyment, have no idea of misery beyond 
that of which they happen to be the individual objects. 

^ ^ :K ^ :{t :!c 



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splendid Illuminations hy Devereux, all from 

originrol drawings. 

Elegantly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 

edges. 1 vol. royal 8vo. 



IV. 



I (irm Soook of %l\\M} \kt\\\]. 

A GEM BOOK OP BRITISH POETRY, WITH BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

BY SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. 

iSIcsantIg illustratctr, Jnttlj ^Portraits of 
Gray, Keats, Scott, Wordsworth, Hemans, Rogers, Macaiday, Campbell, and Moore, 

in the first style of Art. 

Splendidly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 

edges. 1 vol. small 4to. 



h mwt w\\. 



THE WHITE veil: A BRIDAL GIFT. 

BY MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE, 

Author of '• Woman's Record," &c. 

" And the Lord God said, it is not good for man to he alone. 
I will make him an help meet for Mm." Gen. ii. 18. 

Elegantly Illustrated with eleven Engravings and Illuminations, and splendidly- 
bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey ^Morocco, or muslin, 
gilt and gilt edges. 1 vol. small 4to. 



VI. 



Maraiilaii'B ICihjs nf Slnrient %mt. 

LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME. 

BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

With upwards of one hundred Illustrations, original and from the antique by 

Geo. Scharf, Jr., engraved by Devereux and Gihon, and an 

elegant portrait on steel, engraved by Harper. 

Splendidly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 
edges. 1 vol. small 4to. 



YII. 




^ilo0O|i[iij. 



(elegantly ILLUSTRATED, FIFTH EDITION.) 
SMALL QUARTO. 

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY J A BOOK OP THOUGHTS AND ARGUMENTS, ORI- 
GINALLY TREATED. 

BY MARTIN FARQUIIAR TUPPER, D.C.L.,F.R.S. 

Revised and authorized edition ; newly and splendidly Illustrated with sixteen 
Engravings. 1 vol. small 4to. 

Bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt sides and edges. 



VIII. 



Sfruiialm mh ite 0itinitij. 

JERUSALEM AND ITS VICINITY,* A SERIES OF FAMILIAR LECTURES ON 

THE SACRED LOCALITIES CONNECTED WITH THE WEEK 

BEFORE THE RESURRECTION. 

BY REV. WM. H. ODENIIEIMER, A.M., 

Kector of St. Peter's Church, Philadelphia. 

Elegantly Illustrated with seven Engravings in line, in the first style of Art. 

Splendidly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 

ed^cs. 1 vol. 8vo. 



IX. 



'fje fdM in t[je Ciooit. 

THli BOW IN THE CLOUD; OR, COVENANT MERCY FOR THE AFFLICTED. 

" Boiv i)i the Claud', wliat token dost tJiou hear? 
That Justice still cries strike, and Mercy spare." Montgomery. 

BY EEV. WM. BACON STEVENS, D.D., 

Rector of St. Andrew's Church, Philadelphia. 

Elegantly Illustrated with nine line Engravings from original designs 
by Schuessele. 

Splendidly bound in Morocco AnticLue, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gil> 
■ edges. 1 Tol. 8vo. 




X. 

THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OE JOHN EEATS 

With a Memoir, by Richard Monkcton Milnes. 

Splendidly Illustrated with ten elegant EngraTings and a Portrait in the first 

style of the art. 

Elegantly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, 

gilt and gilt edges. 



f irkt IBhitt 



^ti; 




THE POETICAL WORKS AND REMAINS OE HENRY 
KIRKE WHITE. 

Splendidly Illustrated with ten elegant Engravings and a Portrait in the first 

style of the art. 

Elegantly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, 

gilt and gilt edges. 



XII. 



RECORDS OP WOMAN, SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, AND SONGS AND 

LYRICS. 

BY MRS. FELICIA IIEMANS. 

Elegantly Illustrated with a Portrait of Mrs. Ilemans, and of the Mother of Mrs. 
Hemans, and also with twelve splendid Engravings. 

Splendidly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 

edges. 1 vol. 8vo. f 



XIII. 



THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

Splendidly Illustrated with thirteen line Engravings, executed expressly for this 

work, and by a Portrait in " stipple" by Anderton, from a 

painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence. 

Elegantly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 

edges. 1 vol. 8vo. 



XIV. 



%^nn €m^lt\t Soetital Wmh, 



THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

Splendidly Illustrated with thirteen line Engravings, executed expressly for this 

work, and by a Portrait in " stipple" by Anderton, from a 

painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence. 

Elegantly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 

edges. 1 vol. 8vo. 




XV 

(NEW EDITION.) 

THE COMPLETE POETICAL V/ORES OF "EDITH MAY." 

Splendidly Illustrated with ten line Engravings, executed expressly for this work| 
from original designs by Devereux, and a Portrait from 
an original drawing by Furness. 

Bound in Morocco Antique. Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gUt edges. 

1 vol. 8vo. 



XVI. 



[joranii ^Imws MtkUts, 

IRISH MELODIES. 

BY THOMAS MOORE. 

Splendidly Illustrated with a Portrait of the Author, after Lawrence, and twelve 

splendid Engravings. 

■\ 
Elegantly boiind in Ji-orocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 

edges. 1 vol. 8vo. - 



XVII. 

Sf 



limit I. Wall's t\]m of tjir Beart. 



LYRICS OF THE HEART, WITH OTHER POEMS. 

BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 

ISIcgantIa Ellustrateti initt tiadbc spIcntrtTj Bncjraofttss. 

Splendidly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or mvislin, gilt and gilt 

edges. 1 vol. 8vo. 



XVIII. 




iaitst anh l^t ^5ort. 



PROVERBS, ILLUSTRATED BY PARALLEL OR RELATIVE PASSAGES FROM 

THE POETS. 

To loJdch are added Proverbs from the Latin, French, Spanish, and Italian, with 
translations and a copious Index of Sul^ects. 

BY JAMES ORTON, ESQ. 

3EIJ5antl2 EUustratcti, ioitl; illuminations anU Snijra&ings. 

Bound in Morocco Antictue, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt sides and edges. 

1 vol. 8vo, 



XIX 



€Mm\ of Mnkra Slrt; 

A COLLECTIOX OP TWENTY-FIVE SUBJECTS FROM MODERN MASTERS, 

Ungraved in tJie highest style of mezzotint. 

EUustratcb fig appropriate 'Articles in Prose antr Uerse. 

NEW EDITION. 

Bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt edges. 

1 vol. 8vo. 



XX. 

Cnhinrt of Mobwn Slrt. 

(NEW SERIES.) 

A COLLECTION OP TWENTY-FIVE SUBJECTS FROM MODERN MASTERS, 

ENGRAVED IN THE HIGHEST STYLE OP MEZZOTINT, 

EllustratcU in appropriate Srtides in ^rosc anti Ferse. 

This second series, or volume, of the Cabinet is entirely different in Illustrations 

and letter-press from the first series, or volume. 

Bound in Morocco Antique. Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt edges. 

1 vol. 8vo. 



XXI. 



^tippw'js 




(duodecimo.) 

proverbial philosophy; a book of thoughts and arguments 
originally treated. 

BY MAKTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, D.C.L.^F.R.S. 

Revised and authorized edition, splendidly Illustrated with twelve Engravings 

To which is added, An Essay on the Philosophy of Proverbs. 

By James Orton, Esq. 

Elegantly bound in Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt edges. 
1 vol. 12mo. 



XXII. 



lii^^ws Wilm^lfit ^ftmnimlt 



PHILOSOPHIE PROVERBIALE. 

PAR MARTIN F. TUPPER, 

Docteur en Droit et Memhre de la Societe Eoyalel 

Traduite en Frangais d'apres la Dixieme Edition, par George Metivier. 

Eevue et corrigee par F. A. Br^gy, Professeur de Frangais 

h la Haute Ecole Centrale de Philadelphia. 

Elegantly Illustrated, and bound in Turkey Morocco and Arabesque. 
1 vol. 12mo. 



XXIII. 




^nrks anh life. 



TUPPER' S POETICAL WORKS AND LIFE. 

(authorized edition.) 

Ballads for the Times, A Thousand Lines, Hactenus, Geraldine, and other Poems. 

BY MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, D.C.L.,F.R.S. 

To which is added a Biographical Sketch of the Author, by William 

Anderson, Esq., author of " Landscape Lyrics." 

Illustrated with elegant Engravings. 

Splendidly bound in Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt edges. 
1 vol. small 12mo. 



XXIV. 



Ilmflet0 of MemDri]. 

AN ILLUMINATED ANNUAL FOU 1855. 

Illustrated with IlliiminatioDS liy Devereux in the first style of Chromr -Litho- 
graphy, and ten elegant Engravings from the first masters. 

Splendidly hound in Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt edga>J. 
1 Tol. Koyal 8vo. 



XXV. 



t Cnhtnet Snniinl. 



A CHRISTMAS, NEW TEAR, AND BmTH-DAT GIET FOR 1855. 

Elegantly Illustrated with twenty-four EngraTings, and hound in Turkey 
Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt edges. 1 vol. small 8vo. 



XXVI. 



/rimb0ljlp'0 (l)ffwing. 

A CHRISTMAS, NEW YEAR, AND BIRTH-DAY GIFT FOR 1855. 

ISlcgantlg Ellustratrt Initf) ti^i spIcniiU Engrabings in .Sartatn. 

Bound in Arahesque Morccco, gilt and gilt edges. 1 toI. 12mo. 



XXVII. 



I $\\m /lakt. 



A CHRISTMAS AND NEV/ YEAR'S PRESENT FOR 1855. 

Slcgantlg 3:IIustratt"i3 iuitf) ficjfjt splcntiitf Engrabincjg bg ^attain. 

Bound in Arabesque Morocco, gilt and gUt edges. 1 toI. 12mo. 



XXVIII. 



Iffection's dift 



A CHRISTMAS, NEW TEAR, AND BIRTH-DAT GIFT FOR 1855. 

Elegantly Illustrated 'witli eight splendid Engravings, and bound in Arabesque 
Morocco, gilt and gilt edges. 



XXIX, 



t dera Slnimal 



A CHEISTMAS AI^D HEW YEAE'S GIFT FOE 1856. 
Bound in Arabesque Morocco, gilt and gilt edges. 



ELEGANT FAMILT BIELES— BUTLER'S EDITION. 
XXX. 

3oatlfri5 %^w\ Mmx\^ Mk. 

A SPLENDID EDITION OF THE HOLY BIBLE, IX LARGE QUARTO, SUITED 

TO BE USED m CHURCHES AND FAMILIES. 

lliis Bible is in larger sized type than any other jprintecl in the United States. 

It contains the Apocrypha, and a Family Record. All of the following named 
styles, A to G, are printed on the same quality of paper, and are bound in the 
best manner. They differ only in the Illustrations and in style of binding. 

STYLES AND RETAIL PRICES. 

A. Illustrated with 10 coloured Engravings, and 8 new and splendid 

Illuminations. Turkey, super extra, bevelled boards, . . . $16.50 

B. Ilkistrated with 10 Engravings, and 8 new and splendid Illtimina- 

tions. Turkey, super extra, bevelled boards, 14.50 

C. Illustrated with 10 coloured Engravings, and 8 new and splendid Illu- 

minations. Turkey, super extra, . 14.50 

p. Illustrated with 10 Engravings, and 8 new and splendid Illuminations. 

Turkej^j super extra, 13-.00 

E. Illustrated with 10 Engravings, and 4 Illuminations. Turkey 

morocco, super extra, . . . 12.00 



Elegant Family Bibles— Continued. 

E 2. Illustrated ^vitli 10 Engraviugs, and 2 new Illuminations. Turkey 

morocco, gilt edges, 10.00 

r. Illustrated -with 10 EngraTiugs, and 2 Illuminations. Imitation 

Turkey, 8.00 

G. Illustrated with 2 Illuminations, and 2 Engravings. Fine sheep, 

marble edges, gilt back, stamped, and gilt sides, .... 5.50 

ANTIQUE. Illustrated with 10 Coloured Engravings, and 8 new and 
splendid Illuminations. Turkey, super extra, bevelled boards, 

panelled sides, 24.00 

With Psalms, additional $0.25. "With clasps, additional $2.00. 



XXXI. 



Mkvs 0jm) Iraall d^iinrta 36iblf. 

AN ENTIRELY NEW EDITION, STEREOTYPED FROM THE BIBLE SOCIETY 
STANDARD, IN SMALL QUARTO. 

This edition, but seven by nine and a half inches in size, is printed upon pica 
type (the largest type used in any Quarto or Family Bible printed in the United 
States, excepting only Butler's Eoyal Quarto Bible), and contains marginal notes 
and references, the various readings, the Apocrypha, and a Family Record. The 
Illustrations are all from original designs by Schuessele, and are engraved in line 
in the first style of the art. The Illuminations are also from original designs by 
Devercux. The end aimed at in publishing this edition was to produce a Bible in 
large type in a small and convenient shape for reading. This has been accom- 
plished, and it is believed to be the most elegant and convenient edition in the 
English language. 

The following are the styles and retail prices. They are all printed on the same 
quality of paper, and differ only in Illustrations and in the style of binding. 

II. Illustrated with 10 Coloured Engravings, and 8 new and splendid 

Illuminations. Turkey, super extra, bevelled boards, . . . $11.00 
I. Illustrated with 10 Engravings, and 8 new and splendid Illuminations. 

Turkey, super extra, bevelled boards, 10.00 

K. Illustrated with 10 Coloured Engravings, and 8 new and splendid 

Illuminations. Turkey, super extra, 10-00 

L. Illustrated with 10 Engravings, and 8 new and splendid Illuminations. 

Turkey, super extra, 9-00 

III. Illustrated with 10 Engravings, and 4 Illuminations. Turkey morocco, 



super extra. 



.50 



N. Illustrated with 10 Engravings, and 2 new Illuminations. Turkey 

morocco, gilt edges, ^-'^ 

[Oofniinued Over, 



Elegant Family Bibles— Continued. 

0. Illustrated with 10 Engravings, and 2 Illuminations. Imitation 

Turkey, 6.00 

P. Illustrated witii 2 Illuminations, and 2 Engrayings, Fine sheep, 

marble edges, gilt back, stamped and gilt sides, .... 4.50 

ANTIQUE. Illustrated with 10 Coloured Engravings, and 8 new and 
splendid Illuminations. Turkey, super extra, bevelled boards, and 
panelled sides, 15.00 



Also Just Published. 

f ^ttar^s m tin €&mm 0f Cferistiaititg. 

SERIES OF LECTURES ON THE EVIDENCES OF 
CHRISTIANITY. 

Delivered in the City of Philadelphia by Distinguished Clergymen of the 
Protestant Episcopal Church. 

EDITED BY RT. REV. ALONZO POTTER, D.D., 

Bishop of the Diocese of Pennsylvania. 
1 vol. Pvoyal 8vo. 






aiiHiBiiiii— HI— itewi*!— 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



Hill 



lllllillllllllllllllii! 



014 640 056 5 




